LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 
NORMAN    FOERSTER 


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SELECTIONS 

FROM  THE  PROSE  WORKS  OF 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

BY 

WILLIAM  SAVAGE  JOHNSON,  Ph.D. 

Associate  Professor  of  English  in  the 
University  of  Kansas 


BOSTON"   NEW   YORK    CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
^fjE  Clitoer^ibc  fte?^  Cambribge 


The  essays  included  in  this  issue  of  The  Riverside  Literature  Series 
are  reprinted  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with.  The 
Macmillan  Company,  tlie  American  publishers  of  Arnold's  writings. 


COPYRIGHT,    I913,    BY   HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


R.  L.  S.  223 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS' 


LIBRARY 

P  R^  UNIVEHSITY  OF  CACIFORNLV 

^^  p  j  SAISTA  BAltBAKA 

PREFACE 

This  book  of  selections  aims  to  furnish  examples  of 
Arnold's  prose  in  all  the  fields  in  which  it  characteristically 
employed  itself  except  that  of  religion.  It  has  seemed  bet- 
ter to  omit  all  such  material  than  to  attempt  inclusion  of 
a  few  extracts  which  could  hardly  give  any  adequate  no- 
tion of  Arnold's  work  in  this  department.  Something, 
however,  of  his  method  in  religious  criticism  can  be  dis- 
cerned by  a  perusal  of  the  chapter  on  Hebraism  and  Hel- 
lenism, selected  from  Culture  and  Anarchy.  Most  of 
Arnold's  leading  ideas  are  represented  in  this  volume,  but 
the  decision  to  use  entire  essays  so  far  as  feasible  has 
naturally  precluded  the  possibility  of  gathering  all  the  im- 
portant utterances  together.  The  basis  of  division  and 
grouping  of  the  selections  is  made  sufficiently  obvious  by 
the  headings.  In  the  division  of  literary  criticism  the  en- 
deavor has  been  to  illustrate  Arnold's  cosmopolitanism  by 
essays  of  first-rate  importance  dealing  with  the  four  liter- 
atures with  which  he  was  well  acquainted.  In  the  notes, 
conciseness  with  a  reasonable  degree  of  thoroughness  has 
been  the  principle  followed. 


2i 


CONTENTS 

Introduction ..'...       vii 

Bibliography xxii 

Selections  : 

I.  Theories  of  Literature  and  Criticism  : 

-ir-^oetry  and  the  Classics  (1853) 1 

y  2.  The  Function  of  Criticism  at  the  Present  Time 

y  (1864) 20 

/      3.  The  Study  of  Poetry  (1880)  .    > 55- 

4,  Literature  and  Science  (1882) 87 

II.  Literary  Criticism  : 

1.  Heinrich  Heine  (1863)      ."^ 112 

2.  Marcus  Aurelius  (1863) 145 

3.  The  Contribution  of  the  Celts  to  English  Liter- 

ature (1866) 176 

4.  George  Sand  (1877) 192 

5.  Wordsworth  (1879)      . 218 

III.  Social  and  Political  Studies  : 

1.  Sweetness  and  Light  (1867) 242 

2.  Hebraism  and  Hellenism  (18G7) 273 

3.  Equality  (1878) 289 

Notes 315 


INTRODUCTION 


"The  gray  hairs  on  my  head  are  becoming  more  and 
more  numerous,  and  I  sometimes  grow  impatient  of  get- 
ting old  amidst  a  press  of  occupations  and  labor  nfo  and 
for  which,  after  all,  I  was  not  born.  But  we  Personality 
are  not  here  to  have  facilities  found  us  for  doing  the  work 
we  like,  but  to  make  them."  This  sentence,  written  in  a 
letter  to  his  mother  in  his  fortieth  year,  admirably  ex- 
presses Arnold's  courage,  cheerfulness,  and  devotion  in  the 
midst  of  an  exacting  round  of  commonplace  duties,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  energy  and  determination  with  which 
he  responded  to  the  imperative  need  of  liberating  work  of 
a  higher  order,  that  he  might  keep  himself,  as  he  says  in 
another  letter,  "from  feeling  starved  and  shrunk  up." 
The  two  feelings  directed  the  course  of  his  life  to  the  end, 
a  life  characterized  no  less  by  allegiance  to  "  the  lowliest 
duties  "  than  by  brilliant  success  in  a  more  attractive  field. 

Matthew  Arnold  was  born  at  Laleham,  December  24, 
1822,  the  eldest  son  of  Thomas  Arnold,  the  great  head 
master  of  Rugby.  He  was  educated  at  Laleham,  Winches- 
ter, Rugby,  and  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  In  1845  he  was 
elected  a  fellow  of  Oriel,  but  Arnold  desired  to  be  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  the  security  of  college  cloisters  and  gar- 
den walls  could  not  long  attract  him.  Of  a  deep  affection 
for  Oxford  his  letters  and  his  books  speak  unmistakably, 
but  little  record  of  his  Oxford  life  remains  aside  from  the 
well-known  lines  of  Principal  Shairp,  in  which  he  is  spoken 

of  as 

So  full  of  power,  j-et  blithe  and  debonair, 
Rallying  his  friends  with  pleasant  banter  gay. 

From  Oxford  he  returned  to  teach  classics  at  Rugby,  and 
in  1847  he  was  appointed  private  secretary  to  Lord  Lans- 
downe,  then  Lord  President  of  the  Council.  In  1851,  the 
year  of  his  marriage,  he  became  inspector  of  schools,  and 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

in  this  service  he  continued  until  two  years  before  his 
death.  As  an  inspector,  the  letters  give  us  a  picture  of 
Arnold  toiling  over  examination  papers,  and  hurrying 
from  place  to  place,  covering  great  distances,  often  going 
without  lunch  or  dinner,  or  seeking  the  doubtful  solace  of 
a  bun,  eaten  "  before  the  astonished  school."  His  services 
to  the  cause  of  English  education  were  great,  both  in  the 
direction  of  personal  inspiration  to  teachers  and  students, 
and  in  thoughtful  discussion  of  national  problems.  Much 
time  was  spent  in  investigating  foreign  systems,  and  his 
Report  iipon  Schools  and  Universities  on  the  Continent 
was  enlightened  and  suggestive. 

Arnold's  first  volume  of  poems  appeared  in  1849,  and 
by  1853  the  larger  part  of  his  poetry  was  published.  Four 
years  later  he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Ox- 
ford. Of  his  prose,  the  first  book  to  attract  wide  notice 
was  that  containing  the  lectures  On  Translating  Homer 
delivered  from  the  chair  of  Poetry  and  published  in 
1861-62.  Prom  this  time  until  the  year  of  his  death  ap- 
peared the  remarkable  series  of  critical  writings  which 
have  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  the  men  of  letters 
of  his  century.  He  continued  faithfully  to  fulfill  his  duties 
as  school  inspector  until  April,  1886,  when  he  resigned 
after  a  service  of  thirty-five  years.  He  died  of  heart  trouble 
on  April  15,  1888,  at  Liverpool. 

The  testimony  to  Arnold's  personal  charm,  to  his  cheer- 
fulness, his  urbanity,  his  tolerance  and  charity,  is  remark- 
ably uniform.  He  is  described  by  one  who  knew  him  as 
"  the  most  sociable,  the  most  lovable,  the  most  compan- 
ionable of  men";  by  another  as  *' preeminently  a  good 
man,  gentle,  generous,  enduring,  laborious."  His  letters 
are  among  the  precious  writings  of  our  time,  not  because 
of  the  beauty  or  inimitableness  of  detail,  but  because  of 
the  completed  picture  which  they  make.  They  do  not, 
like  the  Carlyle-Emerson  correspondence,  show  a  hand 
that  could  not  set  pen  to  paper  without  writing  pictur- 
esquely, but  they  do  reveal  a  character  of  great  sound- 
ness and  sweetness,  and  one  in  which  the  aflections  play 
a  surprisingly  important  part,  the  love  of  flowers  and 
books,  of    family  and    friends,  and  of    his   fellow  men. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

His  life  was  human,  kindly  and  unselfish,  and  he  al- 
lowed no  clash  between  the  pursuit  of  personal  perfec- 
tion and  devotion  to  the  public  cause,  even  when  the 
latter  demanded  sacrifice  of  the  most  cherished  projects 
and  adherence  to  the  most  irritating  drudgery. 

II 

By  those  who  go  to  literature  primarily  for  a  practical 
wisdom  presented  in  terms  applicable  to  modern  life,  the 
work  of  Arnold  will  be  reckoned  highly  im-  Arnold's 
portant,  if  not  indispensable.  He  will  be  placed  Place 
by  them  among  the  great  humanizers  of  the  last  jj^^fenth- 
century,  and  by  comparison  with  his  contempo-  Century 
raries  will  be  seen  to  have  furnished  a  com  pie-  T®*"^^" 
mentary  contribution  of  the  highest  value.  Of  the  other  great 
teachers  whose  work  may  most  fitly  be  compared  with  his, 
two  were  preeminently  men  of  feeling.  Carlyle  was  governed 
by  an  overmastering  moral  fervor  which  gave  great  weight  to 
his  utterances,  but  which  exercised  itself  in  a  narrow  field 
and  which  often  distorted  and  misinterpreted  the  facts.  Rus- 
kin  was  governed  by  his  affections,  and  though  an  ardent 
lover  of  truth  and  beauty,  was  often  the  victim  of  caprice 
and  extravagance.  Emerson  and  Arnold,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  governed  primarily  by  the  intellect,  but  with 
quite  different  results.  Emerson  presents  life  in  its  ideality ; 
he  comparatively  neglects  life  in  its  phenomenal  aspect, 
that  is,  as  it  appears  to  the  ordinary  man.  Arnold,  while 
not  without  emotional  equipment,  and  inspired  by  ideal- 
ism of  a  high  order,  introduces  a  yet  larger  element  of 
practical  reason.  Tendens  manus  ripce  ulterioris  o,more, 
he  is  yet  fi.rst  of  all  a  man  of  this  world.  His  chief  instru- 
ment is  common  sense,  and  he  looks  at  questions  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  highly  intelligent  and  cultivated  man. 
His  dislike  of  metaphysics  was  as  deep  as  Ruskin's,  and 
he  was  impatient  of  abstractions  of  any  sort.  With  as 
great  a  desire  to  further  the  true  progress  of  his  time  as 
Carlyle  or  Ruskin,  he  joined  a  greater  calmness  and  dis- 
interestedness. "  To  be  less  and  less  personal  in  one's  de- 
sires and  workings "  he  learned  to  look  upon  as  after  all 


X  INTRODUCTION 

the  great  matter.  Of  the  lessons  that  are  impressed  upon 
us  by  his  whole  life  and  work  rather  than  by  specific 
teachings,  perhaps  the  most  precious  is  the  inspiration  to 
live  our  lives  thoughtfully,  in  no  haphazard  and  hand-to- 
mouth  way,  and  to  live  always  for  the  idea  and  the  spirit, 
making  all  things  else  subservient.  He  does  not  dazzle  us 
with  extraordinary  power  prodigally  spent,  but  he  was  a 
good  steward  of  natural  gifts,  high,  though  below  the 
highest.  His  life  of  forethought  and  reason  may  be  profit- 
ably compared  with  a  life  spoiled  by  passion  and  animalism 
like  that  of  Byron  or  of  Burns.  His  counsels  are  the  fruit 
of  this  Avell-ordered  life  and  are  perfectly  in  consonance 
with  it.  While  he  was  a  man  of  less  striking  personality 
and  less  brilliant  literary  gift  than  some  of  his  contempo- 
raries, and  though  his  appeal  was  without  the  moving 
power  that  comes  from  great  emotion,  we  find  a  compen- 
sation in  his  greater  balance  and  sanity.  He  makes  singu- 
larly few  mistakes,  and  these  chiefly  of  detail.  Of  all  the 
teachings  of  the  age  his  ideal  of  perfection  is  the  wisest 
and  the  most  permanent. 


Ill 

Arnold's  poetry  is  the  poetry  of  meditation  and.  not  the 
poetry  of  passion  ;  it  comes  from  "  the  depth  and  not  the 
_,  _  ^  tumult  of  the  soul  "  :  it  does  not  make  us  more 
ers  and  Ms  joyful,  but  it  helps  us  to  greater  depth  of  vision, 
Personal  greater  detachment,  greater  power  of  self-pos- 
Phiiosopny  ggggJQj^  q^j.  concern  here  is  chiefly  with  its  re- 
lation to  the  prose,  and  this,  too,  is  a  definite  and  impor- 
tant relation.  In  his  prose  Arnold  gives  such  result  of  his 
observation  and  meditation  as  he  believes  may  be  gathered 
into  the  form  of  counsel,  criticism,  and  warning  to  his  age. 
In  his  poetry,  which  preceded  the  prose,  we  find  rather 
the  processes  through  which  he  reached  these  conclusions ; 
we  learn  what  is  the  nature  of  his  communing  upon  life, 
not  as  it  affects  society,  but  as  it  fronts  the  individual ; 
we  learn  who  are  the  great  thinkers  of  the  past  who  came 
to  his  help  in  the  straits  of  life,  and  what  is  the  armor 
which  they  furnished  for  his  soul  in  its  times  of  stress. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

One  result  of  a  perusal  of  the  poems  is  to  counteract 
the  impression  often  produced  by  the  jaunty  air  assumed 
in  the  prose.  The  real  substance  of  Arnold's  thought  is 
characterized  by  a  deep  seriousness;  no  one  felt  more 
deeply  the  spiritual  unrest  and  distraction  of  his  age. 
More  than  one  poem  is  an  expression  of  its  mental  and 
spiritual  sickness,  its  doubt,  ennui,  and  melancholy.  Yet 
beside  such  poems  as  Dover  Beach  and  Stagirius  should 
be  placed  the  lines  from  Westminster  Abbey  :  — 

For  this  and  that  way  swings 
The  flux  of  mortal  things, 
Though  moving  inly  to  one  far-set  goal. 

Out  of  this  entanglement  and  distraction  Arnold  turned 
for  help  to  those  writers  who  seemed  most  perfectly  to 
have  seized  upon  the  eternal  verities,  to  have  escaped  out 
of  the  storm  of  conflict  and  to  have  gained  calm  and  peace- 
ful seats.  Carlyle  and  Ruskin,  Byron  and  Shelley,  were 
stained  with  the  blood  of  battle,  they  raged  in  the  heat  of 
controversy  ;  Arnold  could  not  accept  them  as  his  teachers. 
But  the  Greek  poets  and  the  ancient  Stoic  philosophers 
have  nothing  of  this  dust  and  heat  about  them,  and  to 
them  Arnold  turns  to  gather  truth  and  to  imitate  their 
spirit.  Similarly,  two  poets  of  modern  times,  Goethe  and 
Wordsworth,  have  won  tranquillity.  They,  too,  become 
his  teachers.  Arnold's  chief  guides  for  life  are,  then,  these: 
two  Greek  poets,  Sophocles  and  Homer ;  two  ancient 
philosophers,  Marcus  Aurelius  and  Epictetus ;  two  mod- 
ern poets,  Goethe  and  Wordsworth. 

In  Homer  and  Sophocles,  Arnold  sought  what  we  may 
call  the  Greek  spirit.  What  he  conceived  this  spirit  to  be  as 
expressed  in  art,  we  find  in  the  essay  on  Literature  and 
Science,  "  fit  details  strictly  combined,  in  view  of  a  large 
general  result  nobly  conceived."  In  Sophocles,  Arnold 
found  the  same  spirit  interpreting  life  with  a  vision  that 
"  saw  life  steadily  and  saw  it  whole,"  In  another  Greek 
idea,  that  of  fate,  he  is  also  greatly  interested,  though  his 
conception  of  it  is  modified  by  the  influence  of  Christian- 
ity. From  the  Greek  poets,  then,  Arnold  derived  a  sense 
of  the  large  part  which  destiny  plays  in  our  lives  and  the 
wisdom  of  conforming  our  lives  to  necessity  5  the  impor- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

tance  of  conceiving  of  life  as  directed  toward  a  simple, 
large,  and  noble  end ;  and  the  desirability  of  maintaining 
a  balance  among  the  demands  that  life  makes  on  us,  of 
adapting  fit  details  to  the  main  purpose  of  life. 

Among  modern  writers  Arnold  turned  first  to  Goethe, 
"Europe's  sagest  head,  Physician  of  the  Iron  Age."  One 
of  the  things  that  he  learned  from  this  source  was  the 
value  of  detachment.  In  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  of  life, 
Goethe  found  refuge  in  Art.  He  is  the  great  modern  ex- 
ample of  a  man  who  has  been  able  to  separate  himself 
from  the  struggle  of  life  and  watch  it  calmly. 

He  who  hath  watch'd,  not  shared  the  strife, 
Knows  how  the  day  hath  gone. 

Aloofness,  provided  it  be  not  selfish,  has  its  own  value, 
and,  indeed,  isolation  must  be  recognized  as  a  law  of  our 
existence. 

Thm,  thin  the  pleasant  human  noises  grow, 

And  faint  the  city  gleams; 
Rare  the  lone  pastoral  huts —  Marvel  not  thou!' 
The  solemn  peaks  but  to  the  stars  are  known, 
But  to  the  stars  and  the  cold  lunar  beams; 
Alone  the  sun  rises,  and  alone 
Spring  the  great  streams. 

From  Goethe,  also,  Arnold  derived  the  gospel  of  culture 
and  faith  in  the  intellectual  life.  It  is  significant  that 
while  Carlyle  and  Arnold  may  both  be  looked  upon  as 
disciples  of  Goethe,  Carlyle's  most  characteristic  quota- 
tion from  his  master  is  his  injunction  to  us  to  '*  do  the 
task  that  lies  nearest  us,"  while  Arnold's  is  such  a  maxim 
as,  "To  act  is  easy,  to  think  is  hard," 

In  some  ways  Wordsworth  was  for  Arnold  a  personal- 
ity even  more  congenial  than  Goethe,  His  range,  to  be 
sure,  is  narrow,  but  he,  too,  has  attained  spiritual  peace. 
His  life,  secure  among  its  English  hills  and  lakes,  was 
untroubled  in  its  faith,  Wordsworth  strongly  reinforces 
three  things  in  Arnold,  the  ability  to  derive  from  nature 
its  "  healing  power  "  and  to  share  and  be  glad  in  "  the 
wonder  and  bloom  of  the  world "  ;  truth  to  the  deeper 
spiritual  life  and  strength  to  keep  his  soul 

Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 
Firm  to  the  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things; 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

and  finally,  a  satisfaction  in  the  cheerful  and  serene  per- 
formance of  duty,  the  spirit  of  "toil  unsevered  from  tran- 
quillity," sharing  in  the  world's  work,  yet  keeping  "  free 
from  dust  and  soil." 

From  the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius  and  from  the  slave 
Epictetus  alike,  Arnold  learned  to  look  within  for  "  the 
aids  to  noble  life."  Overshadowed  on  all  sides  by  the 
"  uno'erleaped  mountains  of  necessity,"  we  must  learn  to 
resign  our  passionate  hopes  "for  quiet  and  a  fearless 
mind,"  to  merge  the  self  in  obedience  to  universal  law, 
and  to  keep  ever  before  our  minds 

The  pure  eternal  course  of  life, 
Not  human  combatings  with  death. 

No  conviction  is  more  frequently  reiterated  in  Arnold's 
poetry  than  that  of  the  wisdom  of  resignation  and  self-, 
dependence. 

These  great  masters,  then,  strengthened  Arnold  in  those 
high  instincts  which  needed  nourishment  in  a  day  of  spir- 
itual unrest.  From  the  Greek  poets  he  learned  to  look  itt 
life  steadily  and  as  a  whole,  to  direct  it  toward  simple  and 
noble  ends,  and  to  preserve  in  it  a  balance  and  perfection 
of  parts.  From  Goethe  he  derived  the  lessons  of  detach- 
ment and  self-culture.  From  Wordsworth  he  learned  to 
find  peace  in  nature,  to  pursue  an  unworldly  purpose,  and 
to  be  content  with  humble  duties.  From  the  Stoics  he 
learned,  especially,  self-dependence  and  resignation.  In 
general,  he  endeavored  to  follow  an  ideal  of  perfection 
and  to  distinguish  always  between  temporary  demands 
and  eternal  values. 

IV 

In  passing  from  poetry  to  criticism,  Arnold  did  not  feel 
that  he  was  descending  to  a  lower  level.   Rather  he  felt 
that  he  was  helping  to  lift  criticism  to  a  posi-   Theory  of 
tion  of   equality   with   more  properly   creative   Criticism 
work.  The  most  noticeable  thing  about  his  de-   ment  ^g  ^ 
finition  of  criticism  is  its  lofty  ambition.   It  is   Critic 
"  the  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn  and  propagate  the 
best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world,"  and  its 


xlv  INTRODUCTION 

more  ultimate  purpose  is  "  to  keep  man  from  a  self-satis- 
faction -which  is  retarding  and  vulgarizing,  to  lead  him 
towards  perfection."  It  is  not  to  be  confined  to  art  and 
literature,  but  is  to  include  within  its  scope  society,  poli- 
tics, and  religion.  It  is  not  only  to  censure  that  which  is 
blameworthy,  but  to  appreciate  and  popularize  the  best. 

For  this  work  great  virtues  are  demanded  of  the  critic. 
Foremost  of  these  is  disinterestedness.  *'  If  I  know  your 
sect,  I  anticipate  your  argument,"  says  Emerson  in  the 
essay  on  Self-Reliance.  Similarly  Arnold  warns  the  critic 
against  partisanship.  It  is  better  that  he  refrain  from  ac- 
tive participation  in  politics,  social  or  humanitarian  work. 
Connected  with  this  is  another  requisite,  that  of  clearness 
of  vision.  One  of  the  great  disadvantages  of  partisanship 
is  that  it  blinds  the  partisan.  But  the  critical  effort  is  de- 
'  scribed  as  "the  effort  to  see  the  object  as  in  itself  it  really 
is."  This  is  best  accomplished  by  approaching  truth  in  as 
many  ways  and  from  as  many  sides  as  possible. 

Another  precaution  for  the  critic  who  would  retain 
clearness  of  vision  is  the  avoidance  of  abstract  systems, 
which  petrify  and  hinder  the  necessary  flexibility  of  mind. 
Coolness  of  temper  is  also  enjoined  and  scrupulously  prac- 
ticed. "  It  is-  only  by  remaining  collected  .  .  .  that  the 
critic  can  do  the  practical  man  any  service  "  ;  and  again  : 
"  Even  in  one's  ridicule  one  must  preserve  a  sweetness 
and  good  humor  "  (letter  to  his  mother,  October  27,  1863). 
In  addition  to  these  virtues,  which  in  Arnold's  opinion 
comprised  the  qualities  most  requisite  for  salutary  criticism, 
certain  others  are  strikingly  illustrated  by  Arnold's  own 
mind  and  methods :  the  endeavor  to  understand,  to  sym- 
pathize with,  and  to  guide  intelligently  the  main  ten- 
dencies of  his  age,  rather  than  violently  to  oppose  them ; 
at  the  same  time  the  courage  to  present  unpleasant  anti- 
dotes to  its  faults  and  to  keep  from  fostering  a  people  in 
its  own  conceit ;  and  finally,  amidst  many  discourage- 
ments, the  retention  of  a  high  faith  in  spiritual  progress 
and  an  unwavering  belief  that  the  ideal  life  is  "  the  nor- 
mal life  as  we  shall  one  day  see  it." 

Criticism,  to  be  effective,  requires  also  an  adequate  style. 
In  Arnold's  discussion  of  style,  much  stress  is  laid  on  its 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

basis  in  character,  and  much  upon  the  transparent  quality 
of  true  style  which  allows  that  basic  character  to  shine 
through.  Such  words  as  "  limpidness,"  "simplicity," 
"  lucidity,"  are  favorites.  Clearness  and  effectiveness  are 
the  qualities  that  he  most  highly  valued.  The  latter  he 
gained  especially  through  the  crystallization  of  his  thought 
into  certain  telling  phrases,  such  as  "  Philistinism," 
*'  sweetness  and  light,"  "  the  grand  style,"  etc.  That  this 
habit  was  attended  with  dangers,  that  his  readers  were 
likely  to  get  hold  of  his  phrases  and  think  that  they  had 
thereby  mastered  his  thought,  he  realized.  Perhaps  he 
hardly  realized  the  danger  to  the  coiner  of  apothegms 
himself,  that  of  being  content  with  a  half  truth  when  the 
whole  truth  cannot  be  conveniently  crowded  into  narrow 
compass.  Herein  lies,  I  think,  the  chief  source  of  Arnold's 
occasional  failure  to  qviite  satisfy  our  sense  of  adequacy  or 
of  justice,  as,  for  instance,  in  his  celebrated  handling  of 
the  four  ways  of  regarding  nature,  or  the  passage  in  which 
he  describes  the  sterner  self  of  the  working-class  as  liking 
"  bawling,  hustling,  and  smashing ;  the  lighter  self,  beer." 

By  emotionalism,  however,  he  does  not  allow  himself  to 
be  betrayed,  and  he  does  not  indulge  in  rhythmical  prose 
or  rhapsody,  though  occasionally  his  writing  has  a  truly 
poetical  quality  resulting  from  the  quiet  but  deep  feeling 
which  rises  in  connection  with  a  subject  on  which  the 
mind  has  long  brooded  with  affection,  as  in  the  tribute  to 
Oxford  at  the  beginning  of  the  Essay  on  Emerson.  Some- 
times, on  the  other  hand,  a  certain  pedagogic  stiffness  ap- 
pears, as  if  the  writer  feared  that  the  dullness  of  compre- 
hension of  his  readers  would  not  allow  them  to  grasp  even 
the  simplest  conceptions  without  a  patient  insistence  on 
the  literal  fact. 

One  can  by  no  means  pass  over  Arnold's  humor  in  a 
discussion  of  his  style,  yet  humor  is  certainly  a  secondary 
matter  with  him,  in  spite  of  the  frequency  of  its  appear- 
ance. It  is  not  much  found  in  his  more  intimate  and  per- 
sonal writing,  his  poetry  and  his  familiar  letters.  In  such 
a  book  as  Friendship's  Garland,  where  it  is  most  in  evi- 
dence, it  is  plainly  a  literary  weapon  deliberately  assumed. 
In  fact,  Arnold  is  almost  too  conscious  of  the  value  of 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

humor  in  the  gentle  warfare  in  which  he  had  enlisted.  Its 
most  frequent  form  is  that  of  playful  satire ;  it  is  the  pro- 
duct of  keen  wit  and  sane  mind,  and  it  is  always  directed 
toward  some  serious  purpose,  rarely,  if  ever,  existing  as 
an  end  in  itself. 


The  first  volume  of  JEssai/s  in  Criticism  was  published 
in  1865.  That  a  book  of  essays  on  literary  subjects,  ap- 
Llterary  parently  so  diverse  in  character,  so  lacking  in 
Criticism  outer  unity,  and  so  little  subject  to  system  of 
any  sort,  should  take  so  definite  a  place  in  the  history  of 
criticism  and  make  so  single  an  impression  upon  the  reader 
proves  its  possession  of  a  dominant  and  important  idea, 
impelled  by  a  new  and  weighty  power  of  personality.  What 
Arnold  called  his  ''sinuous,  easy,  unpolemical  mode  of  pro- 
ceeding "  tends  to  disguise  the  seriousness  and  unity  of  pur- 
pose which  lie  behind  nearly  all  of  these  essays,  but  an 
uninterrupted  perusal  of  the  two  volumes  of  Essays  in 
Criticism  and  the  volume  of  Mixed  Essays  discloses  what 
that  purpose  is.  The  essays  may  roughly  be  divided  into 
two  classes,  those  which  deal  with  single  writers  and 
those  discussing  subjects  of  more  general  nature.  The  pur- 
pose of  both  is  what  Arnold  himself  has  called  "  the 
humanization  of  man  in  society."  In  the  former  he  selects 
some  person  exemplifying  a  trait,  in  the  latter  he  selects 
some  general  idea,  which  he  deems  of  importance  for  our 
further  humanization,  and  in  easy,  unsystematic  fashion 
unfolds  and  illustrates  it  for  us.  But  in  spite  of  this  un- 
labored method  he  takes  care  somewhere  in  the  essay  to 
seize  upon  a  phrase  that  shall  bring  home  to  us  the  essence 
of  his  theme  and  to  make  it  salient  enough  so  as  not  to 
escape  us.  How  much  space  shall  be  devoted  to  exposition, 
and  how  much  to  illustration,  depends  largely  on  the  famil- 
iarity of  his  subject  to  his  readers.  Besides  the  general  pur- 
pose of  humanization,  two  other  considerations  guide  him  : 
the  racial  shortcomings  of  the  English  people  and  the 
needs  of  his  age.  The  English  are  less  in  need  of  energiz- 
ing and  moralizing  than  of  intellectualizing,  refining,  and 
inspiring  with  the  passion  for  perfection.   This  need  accord- 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

ingly  determines  the  choice  in  most  cases.  So  Milton  pre- 
sents an  example  of  "sure  and  flawless  perfection  of  rhythm 
and  diction  " ;  Joubert  is  characterized  by  his  intense  care 
of  ''perfecting  himself";  Falkland  is  "our  martyr  of 
sweetness  and  light,  of  lucidity  of  mind  and  largeness  of 
temper  " ;  George  Sand  is  admirable  because  of  her  desire 
to  make  the  ideal  life  the  normal  one  ;  Emerson  is  "  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit." 

The  belief  that  poetry  is  our  best  instrument  for  humani- 
zation  determines  Arnold's  loyalty  to  that  form  of  art ; 
that  classical  art  is  superior  to  modern  in  clarity,  harmony, 
and  wholeness  of  effect,  determines  his  preference  for 
classic,  especially  for  Greek  poetry.  He  thus  represents  a 
reaction  against  the  romantic  movement,  yet  has  experi- 
enced the  emotional  deepening  which  that  movement 
brought  with  it.  Accordingly,  he  finds  a  shallowness  in 
the  pseudo-classicism  of  Pope  and  his  contemporaries,  and 
turns  rather  to  Sophocles  on  the  one  hand  and  Goethe  on 
the  other  for  his  exemplars.  He  feels  "  the  peculiar  charm 
and  aroma  of  the  Middle  Age,"  but  retains  "  a  strong  sense 
of  the  irrationality  of  that  period  and  of  those  who  take 
it  seriously,  and  play  at  restoring  it"  (letter  to  Miss 
Arnold,  December  17,  1860)  ;  and  again:  "No  one  has  a 
stronger  and  more  abiding  sense  than  I  have  of  the  '  dae- 
monic' element  —  as  Goethe  called  it  —  which  underlies 
and  encompasses  our  life ;  but  I  think,  as  Goethe  thought, 
that  the  right  thing  is  while  conscious  of  this  element, 
and  of  all  that  there  is  inexplicable  round  one,  to  keep 
pushing  on  one's  posts  into  the  darkness,  and  to  establish 
no  post  that  is  not  perfectly  in  light  and  firm  "  (letter  to 
his  mother,  March  3,  1865). 


"VI 

Like  the  work  of  all  clear  thinkers,  Arnold's  writing 
proceeds  from  a  few  governing  and  controlling   criticism 
principles.   It  is  natural,  therefore,  that  we  should    °*  Society, 
find  in  his  criticism  of  society  a  repetition  of  the   and  Reli- 
ideas  already  encountered  in  his  literary  criti-   glon 
cism.    Of  these,  the  chief  is  that  of  "culture,"  the  theme 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

of  his  most  typical  book,  Culture  and  Aiiarchrj,  pub- 
lished in  1869.  Indeed,  it  is  interesting  to  see  how  closely 
related  his  doctrine  of  culture  is  to  his  theory  of  criticism, 
already  expounded.  True  criticism,  we  have  seen,  consists 
in  an  "  endeavor  to  learn  and  propagate  the  best  that  ia 
known  and  thought  in  the  world."  The  shortest  definition 
that  Arnold  gives  of  culture  is  "  a  study  of  perfection." 
But  how  may  one  pursue  perfection  ?  Evidently  by  putting 
oneself  in  the  way  of  learning  the  best  that  is  known  and 
thought,  and  by  making  it  a  part  of  oneself.  The  relation 
of  the  critic  to  culture  thereupon  becomes  evident.  He  is 
the  appointed  apostle  of  culture.  He  undertakes  as  his 
duty  in  life  to  seek  out  and  to  minister  to  others  the 
means  of  self-improvement,  discriminating  the  evil  and 
the  specious  from  the  good  and  the  genuine,  rendering  the 
former  contemptible  and  the  latter  attractive.  But  in  a 
degree  all  seekers  after  culture  must  be  critics  also.  Both 
pursue  the  same  objects,  the  best  that  is  thought  and 
known.  Both,  too,  must  propagate  it ;  for  culture  consists 
in  general  expansion,  and  the  last  degree  of  personal  per- 
fection is  attained  only  when  shared  with  one's  fellows. 
The  critic  and  the  trxie  man  of  culture  are,  therefore,  at 
bottom,  the  same,  though  Arnold  does  not  specifically 
point  this  out.  But  tlie  two  ideals  united  in  himself  direct 
all  his  endeavor.  As  a  man  of  culture  he  is  intent  chiefly 
upon  the  acquisition  of  the  means  of  perfection ;  as  a  cri- 
tic, upon  their  elucidation  and  propagation. 

This  sufficiently  answers  the  charge  of  selfishness  that 
is  frequently  brought  against  the  gospel  of  culture.  It 
would  never  have  been  brought  if  its  critics  had  not  per- 
versely shut  their  eyes  to  Arnold's  express  statements  that 
perfection  consists  in  "a  general  expansion  "  ;  that  it  *'  is 
not  possible  while  the  individual  remains  isolated  "  ;  that 
one  of  its  characteristics  is  ''increased  sympathy,"  as  well 
as  "  increased  sweetness,  increased  light,  increased  life." 
The  other  common  charge  of  dilettanteism,  brought  by 
such  opponents  as  Professor  Huxley  and  ^Ir.  Frederic 
Harrison,  deserves  hardly  more  consideration.  Arnold  has 
made  it  sufficiently  clear  that  he  does  not  mean  by  cul- 
ture "  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin,"  but  a  deepening 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

and  strengthening  of  our  whole  spiritual  nature  by  all  the 
means  at  our  command.  No  other  ideal  of  the  century  is 
so  satisfactory  as  this  of  Arnold's.  The  ideal  of  social 
democracy,  as  commonly  followed,  tends,  as  Arnold  has 
pointed  out,  to  exalt  the  average  man,  while  culture  exalts 
man  at  his  best.  The  scientific  ideal,  divorced  from  a  gen- 
eral cultural  aim,  appeals  "  to  a  limited  faculty  and  not  to 
the  whole  man."  The  religious  ideal,  too  exclusively  cul- 
tivated, dwarfs  the  sense  of  beauty  and  is  marked  by  nar- 
rowness. Culture  includes  religion  as  its  most  valuable 
component,  but  goes  beyond  it. 

The  fact  that  Arnold,  in  his  social  as  in  his  literary 
criticism,  laid  the  chief  stress  upon  the  intellectual  rather 
than  the  moral  elements  of  culture,  was  due  to  his  con- 
stant desire  to  adapt  his  thought  to  the  condition  of  his 
age  and  nation.  The  prevailing  characteristics  of  the  Eng- 
lish people  he  believed  to  be  energy  and  honesty.  These 
he  contrasts  with  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  Athenians, 
openness  of  mind  and  flexibility  of  intelligence.  As  the 
best  type  of  culture,  that  is,  of  perfected  humanity,  for 
the  Englishman  to  emulate,  he  turns,  therefore,  to  Greece 
in  the  time  of  Sophocles.  Greece,  to  be  sure,  failed  be- 
cause of  the  lack  of  that  very  Hebraism  which  England 
possesses  and  to  which  she  owes  her  strength.  But  if  to 
this  strength  of  moral  fiber  could  be  added  the  openness  of 
mind,  flexibility  of  intelligence,  and  love  of  beauty  which 
distinguished  the  Greeks  in  their  best  period,  a  truly  great 
civilization  would  result.  That  this  ideal  will  in  the  end 
prevail,  he  has  little  doubt.  The  strain  of  sadness,  mel- 
ancholy, and  depression  which  appears  in  Arnold's  poetry 
is  rigidly  excluded  from  his  prose.  Both  despondency  and 
violence  are  forbidden  to  the  believer  in  culture.  "  We  go 
the  way  the  human  race  is  going,"  he  says  at  the  close  of 
Cultitre  and  Anarchy. 

Arnold's  incursion  into  the  field  of  religion  has  been 
looked  upon  by  many  as  a  mistake.  Religion  is  with  most 
people  a  matter  of  closer  interest  and  is  less  discussable 
than  literary  criticism.  Literature  and  Dogma  aroused 
much  antagonism  on  this  account.  Moreover,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  Arnold  was  not  well  enough  equipped  in  this 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

field  to  prevent  him  from  making  a  good  many  mistakes. 
But  that  the  upshot  of  his  religious  teaching  is  wholesome 
and  edifying  can  hardly  be  denied.  Arnold's  spirit  is  a 
deeply  religious  one,  and  his  purpose  in  his  religious 
books  was  to  save  what  was  valuable  in  religion  by  sepa- 
rating it  from  what  was  non-essential.  He  thought  of  him- 
self always  as  a  friend,  not  as  an  enemy,  of  religion.  The 
purpose  of  all  his  religious  writings,  of  which  St.  Paul  and 
Protestantism,  1870,  and  Literature  and  Dogma,  1873, 
are  the  most  important,  is  the  same,  to  show  the  natural 
truth  of  religion  and  to  strengthen  its  position  by  freeing 
it  from  dependence  on  dogma  and  historical  evidence,  and 
especially  to  make  clear  the  essential  value  of  Christian- 
ity. Conformity  with  reason,  true  spirituality,  and  free- 
dom from  materialistic  interpretation  were  for  him  the 
bases  of  sound  faith.  That  Arnold's  religious  writing  is 
thoroughly  spiritual  in  its  aim  and  tendency  has,  I  think, 
never  been  questioned,  and  we  need  only  examine  some 
of  his  leading  definitions  to  become  convinced  of  this. 
Thus,  religion  is  descri])ed  as  "  that  which  binds  and  holds 
us  to  the  practice  of  righteousness  "  ;  faith  is  tlie  "  power, 
preeminently,  of  holding  fast  to  an  unseen  power  of  good- 
ness "  ;  God  is  "  the  power,  not  ourselves,  that  makes  for 
righteousness  "  ;  immortality  is  a  union  of  one's  life  with 
an  eternal  order  that  never  dies.  Arnold  did  not  without 
reluctance  enter  into  religious  controversy,  but  when  once 
entered  he  did  his  best  to  make  order  and  reason  prevail 
there.  His  attitude  is  well  stated  in  an  early  essay  not 
since  reprinted :  — 

"  And  you  are  masters  in  Israel,  and  know  not  these 
things;  and  you  require  a  voice  from  the  world  of  litera- 
ture to  tell  them  to  you !  Those  who  ask  nothing  better 
tlian  to  remain  silent  on  such  topics,  Avho  have  to  quit 
their  own  sphere  to  speak  of  them,  who  cannot  touch  them 
without  being  reminded,  that  they  survive  those  who 
touched  them  with  far  different  power,  you  compel,  in  the 
mere  interest  of  letters,  of  intelligence,  of  general  culture, 
to  proclaim  truths  which  it  was  your  function  to  have 
made  familiar.  And  when  you  have  thus  forced  the  very 
stones  to  cry  out,  and  the  dumb  to  speak,  you  call  them 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

singular  because  they  know  these  truths,  and  arrogant  be- 
cause they  declare  them  ! "  ^ 

In  political  discussion  as  in  all  other  forms  of  criticism 
Arnold  aimed  at  disinterestedness.  "  I  am  a  Liberal,"  he 
says  in  the  Introduction  to  Culture  and  Anarchy,  "yet  I 
am  a  Liberal  tempered  by  experience,  reflection,  and  self- 
renouncement,"  In  the  last  condition  he  believed  that  his 
particular  strength  lay.  "I  do  not  wish  to  see  men  of  cul- 
ture entrusted  with  power."  In  his  coolness  and  freedom 
from  bitterness  is  to  be  found  his  chief  superiority  to  his 
more  violent  contemporaries.  This  saved  him  from  magnify- 
ing the  faults  inseparable  from  the  social  movements  of  his 
day.  In  contrast  with  Carlyle  he  retains  to  the  end  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  advance  of  democracy  and  a  belief  in  the 
principles  of  liberty  and  equality,  while  not  blinded  to  the 
weaknesses  of  Liberalism.  Political  discussion  in  the  hands 
of  its  express  partisans  is  always  likely  to  become  violent 
and  one-sided.  This  violence  and  one-sidedness  Arnold  be- 
lieves it  the  work  of  criticism  to  temper,  or  as  he  expresses 
it,  in  Culture  and  Anarchy,  "  Culture  is  the  eternal  oppo- 
nent of  the  two  things  which  are  the  signal  marks  of  Ja- 
cobinism, —  its  fierceness  and  its  addiction  to  an  abstract 
system." 

VII 

"Un  Milton  jeune  et  voyageant"  was  George  Sand's 
description  of  the  young  Arnold.  The  eager  pursuit  of 
high  aims,  implied  in  this  description,  he  carried 
from  youth  into  manhood  and  age.  The  inno- 
cence, the  hopefulness,  and  the  noble  curiosity  of  youth  he 
retained  to  the  end.  But  these  became  tempered  with  the 
ripe  wisdom  of  maturity,  a  wisdom  needed  for  the  helpful 
interpretation  of  a  perplexing  period.  His  prose  writings 
are  surpassed,  in  that  spontaneous  and  unaccountable  in- 
spiration which  we  call  genius,  by  those  of  certain  of  his 
contemporaries,  but  when  we  become  exhausted  by  the 
perversities  of  ill-controlled  passion  and  find  ourselves 
unable  to  breathe  the  rarified  air  of  transcendentalism,  we 
may  turn  to  him  for  the  clarifying  and  strengthening 
effect  of  calm  intelligence  and  pure  spirituality. 

1  From  Dr.  Stanley's  Lectures  on  the  Jewish   Church,  Macmillan'i 
Magazine,  February,  1863,  vol.  7,  p.  336. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Arnold's  Poems. 

1849.  The  Strayed  Reveller,  and  otTier  Poems.  1852.  Empe- 
docles  on  Etna,  and  other  Poems.  1S53.  Poems.  1855.  Poems 
(Second  Series).  1S58.  Merope.  1867.  New  Poems.  1869. 
Poems  (First  Collected  Edition).  (A  few  new  poems  were 
added  in  the  later  collections  of  1877, 1881,  1885,  and  1890.) 

Arnold's  Prose, 

1859.  England  and  the  Italian  Question.  1861.  Popular 
Education  in  France.  1861.  Oh  Translating  Homer.  1862. 
Last  Words  on  Translating  Homer.  1864.  A  French  Eton. 
1865.  Essat/s  in  Criticism.  1867.  On  the  Study  of  Celtic 
Literature.  1868.  Schools  and  Unicersities  on  the  Continent. 
1869.  Culture  and  Anarchy.  1870.  St.  Paul  and  Protestant- 
ism. 1871.  Friendship's  Garland.  1873.  Literature  and 
Dogma.  1875.  God  and  the  Bible.  1877.  Last  Essays  on 
Church  and  Religion.  1879.  Mixed  Essays.  1882.  Irish 
Essays.  1885.  Discourses  in  America.  1888.  Essays  in  Criti- 
cism (Second  Series).  1888.  Civilization  in  the  United  States. 
1891.  On  Home  Rule  for  Ireland.  1910.  Essays  in  Criticism 
(Third  Series). 

For  a  complete  bibliography  of  Arnold's  writings  and 
of  .Arnold  criticism,  see  Bibliography  of  Matthew  Arnold, 
by  T.  B.  Smart,  London,  1892.  The  letters  of  Matthew 
Arnold,  1848-88,  were  edited  by  G.  W.  E.  Russell  in  1896. 

Criticism  of  Arnold's  Prose. 

BiRRELL,  Augustine  :  Res  .ludicatce.  London,  1892. 
Brownell,  W.  C.  :    Victorian  Prose  Masters,  New  York, 

1902. 
Burroughs,  John  :  Indoor  Studies,  Boston.  1889. 
Dawson,  W.  H.  :  Matthew  Arnold  and  his  Relation  to  the 

Thought  of  our  Time.  New  York,  1904. 
Fitch,  Sir  Joshua:   Thomas  and  Matthew  Arnold  and  their 

Influence  on  English  Education,  New  York,  1897. 
Gates,  L.  E.  :  Selections  from  the  Prose  Writings  of  MaXthew 

Arnold,  New  York,  1898. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  xxiii 

Harrisois',  Frederic  :  Culture ;  A  Dialogue.  In  The 
Choice  of  Books,  London,  1886. 

IIuTTON,  R.  H. :  Modern  Guides  of  English  Thought  in  Mat- 
ters of  Faith,  London,  1887. 

Jacobs,  Joseph  :  Literary  Studies,  London,  1895. 

Paul,  Herbert  W.  :  Matthew  Arnold.  In  English  Men  of 
Letters  Series,  London  and  New  York,  1902. 

Robertson,  John  M.  :  Modern  Humanists,  London,  1891. 

Russell,  G.  W.  E.  :  Matthew  Arnold,  New  York,  1904. 

Saintsbury,  George  :  Corrected  Impressions,  London,  1895. 
Matthew  Arnold ;  In  Modern  English  Writers  Series,  Lon- 
don, 1899. 

Shairp,  J.  C.  :  Culture  and  Religion,  Edinburgh,  1870. 

Spedding,  James  :  Reviews  and  Discussions,  London,  1879. 

Stephen,  Sir  Leslie  :  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  vol.  2,  Lon- 
,  don,  1898. 

Woodberry,  George  E.  :  Makers  of  Literature,  London, 
1900. 


^s. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  MATTHEW 
ARNOLD 

I.   THEORIES   OF  LITERATURE   AND 
CRITICISM 

POETRY  AND  THE   CLASSICS  i 

In  two  small  volumes  of  Poems,  published  anony- 
mously, one  in  1849,  the  other  in  1852,  many  of  the 
Poems  which  compose  the  present  volume  have  already 
appeared.  The  rest  are  now  published  for  the  first 
time. 

I  have,  in  the  present  collection,  omitted  the  poem  ^ 
from  which  the  volume  published  in  1852  took  its 
title.  I  have  done  so,  not  because  the  subject  of  it  was 
a  Sicilian  Greek  born  between  two  and  three  thousand 
years  ago,  although  many  persons  would  think  this  a 
sufficient  reason.  Neither  have  I  done  so  because  I  had, 
in  my  own  opinion,  failed  in  the  delineation  which  I 
intended  to  effect.  I  intended  to  delineate  the  feelings 
of  one  of  the  last  of  the  Greek  religious  philosophers, 
one  of  the  family  of  Orpheus  and  Musseus,  having 
survived  his  fellows,  living  on  into  a  time  when  the 
habits  of  Greek  thought  and  feeling  had  begun  fast 
to  change,  character  to  dwindle,  the  influence  of  the 
Sophists  3  to  prevail.  Into  the  feelings  of  a  man  so 
situated  there  are  entered  much  that  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  consider  as  exclusively  modern  ;  how  much, 
the  fragments  of  Empedocles  himself  which  remain  to 
us  are  sufficient  at  least  to  indicate.  What  those  who 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

are  familiar  only  with  the  great  monuments  of  early 
Greek  genius  suppose  to  be  its  exclusive  characteris- 
tics, have  disappeared ;  the  calm,  the  cheerfulness,  the 
disinterested  objectivity  have  disappeared ;  the  dia^ 
logue  of  the  mind  with  itself  has  commenced  ;  modern 
problems  have  presented  themselves  ;  we  hear  already 
the  doubts,  we  witness  the  discouragement,  of  Hamlet 
and  of  Faust. 

The  representation  of  such  a  man's  feelings  must  be 
interesting,  if  consistently  drawn.  We  all  naturally 
take  pleasure,  says  Aristotle,^  in  any  imitation  or  rep- 
resentation whatever :  this  is  the  basis  of  our  love  of 
poetry :  and  we  take  pleasure  in  them,  he  adds,  be- 
cause all  knowledge  is  naturally  agreeable  to  us ;  not 
to  the  philosopher  only,  but  to  mankind  at  large. 
Every  representation  therefore  which  is  consistently 
drawn  may  be  supposed  to  be  interesting,  inasmuch  as 
it  gi'atifies  this  natural  interest  in  knowledge  of  all 
kinds.  What  is  not  interesting,  is  that  which  does  not 
add  to  our  knowledge  of  any  kind ;  that  which  is 
vaguely  conceived  and  loosely  drawn  ;  a  representation 
which  is  general,  indeterminate,  and  faint,  instead  of 
being  particular,  precise,  and  firm. 

Any  accurate  representation  may  therefore  be  ex- 
pected to  be  interesting ;  but,  if  the  representation  be 
a  poetical  one,  more  than  this  is  demanded.  It  is  de- 
manded, not  only  that  it  shall  interest,  but  also  that 
it  shall  inspirit  and  rejoice  the  reader :  that  it  shall 
convey  a  charm,  and  infuse  delight.  For  the  Muses,  as 
Hesiod  2  says,  were  born  that  they  might  be  "  a  forget- 
fulness  of  evils,  and  a  truce  from  cares  " :  and  it  is 
not  enough  that  the  poet  should  add  to  the  knowledge 
of  men,  it  is  required  of  him  also  that  he  should  add 
to  their  happiness.  "  All  art,"  says  Schiller,  "  is  dedi- 
cated to  joy,  and  there  is  no  higher  and  no  more  seri- 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  3 

ous  problem,  than  how  to  make  men  happy.  The  right 
art  is  that  alone,  which  creates  the  highest  enjoy- 
ment." 

A  poetical  work,  therefore,  is  not  yet  justified  when 
it  has  been  shown  to  be  an  accurate,  and  therefore 
interesting  representation ;  it  has  to  be  shown  also  that 
it  is  a  representation  from  which  men  can  derive  enjoy- 
ment. In  presence  of  the  most  tragic  circumstances, 
represented  in  a  work  of  art,  the  feeling  of  enjoy- 
ment, as  is  well  known,  may  still  subsist :  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  most  utter  calamity,  of  the  liveliest 
anguish,  is  not  sufficient  to  destroy  it :  the  more  tragic 
the  situation,  the  deeper  becomes  the  enjoyment ;  and 
the  situation  is  more  tragic  in  proportion  as  it  becomes 
more  terrible. 

What  then  are  the  situations,  from  the  representa- 
tion of  which,  though  accurate,  no  poetical  enjoyment 
can  be  derived  ?  They  are  those  in  which  the  suffering 
finds  no  vent  in  action  ;  in  which  a  continuous  state  of 
mental  distress  is  prolonged,  unrelieved  by  incident, 
hope,  or  resistance ;  in  which  there  is  everything  to 
be  endured,  nothing  to  be  done.  In  such  situations 
there  is  inevitably  something  moi-bid,  in  the  descrij)- 
tion  of  them  something  monotonous.  When  they  occur 
in  actual  life,  they  are  painful,  not  tragic  ;  the  repre- 
sentation of  them  in  poetry  is  painful  also. 

To  this  class  of  situations,  poetically  faulty  as  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  that  of  Empedocles,  as  I  have  endeavored 
to  repi-esent  him,  belongs;  and  I  have  therefore  ex- 
cluded the  poem  from  the  present  collection. 

And  why,  it  may  be  asked,  have  I  entered  into  this 
explanation  respecting  a  matter  so  unimportant  as  the 
admission  or  exclusion  of  the  poem  in  question  ?  I 
have  done  so,  because  I  was  anxious  to  avow  that  the 
sole  reason  for  its  exclusion  was  that  which  has  been 


4  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

stated  above ;  and  that  it  has  not  been  excluded  in 
deference  to  the  opinion  which  many  critics  of  the 
present  day  appear  to  entertain  against  subjects  chosen 
from  distant  times  and  countries :  against  the  choice, 
in  short,  of  any  subjects  but  modern  ones. 

"The  poet,"  it  is  said,^  and  by  an  intelligent  critic, 
"  the  poet  who  would  really  fix  the  public  attention 
must  leave  the  exhausted  past,  and  draw  his  subjects 
from  matters  of  present  import,  and  therefore  both  of 
interest  and  novelty." 

Now  this  view  I  believe  to  be  completely  false.  It 
is  worth  examining,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  fair  sample  of 
a  class  of  critical  dicta  everywhere  current  at  the 
present  day,  having  a  philosophical  form  and  air,  but 
no  real  basis  in  fact ;  and  which  are  calculated  to 
vitiate  the  judgment  of  readers  of  poetry,  while  they 
exert,  so  far  as  they  are  adopted,  a  misleading  influ- 
ence on  the  practice  of  those  who  make  it. 

What  are  the  eternal  objects  of  poetry,  among  all 
nations  and  at  all  times  ?  They  are  actions ;  human 
actions  ;  possessing  an  inherent  interest  in  themselves, 
and  which  are  to  be  communicated  in  an  interesting 
manner  by  the  art  of  the  poet.  Vainly  will  the  latter 
imagine  that  he  has  everything  in  his  own  power  ;  that 
he  can  make  an  intrinsically  inferior  action  equally 
delightful  with  a  more  excellent  one  by  his  treatment 
of  it :  he  may  indeed  compel  us  to  admire  his  skill, 
but  his  work  will  possess,  within  itself,  an  incurable 
defect. 

The  poet,  then,  has  in  the  first  place  to  select  an 
excellent  action ;  and  what  actions  are  the  most  excel- 
lent? Those,  certainly,  which  most  powerfully  appeal 
to  the  great  primary  human  affections :  to  those  ele- 
mentary feelings  which  subsist  permanently  in  the 
race,  and  which  are  independent  of  time.  These  feel- 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  5 

ings  are  permanent  and  the  same;  that  which  inter- 
ests them  is  permanent  and  the  same  also.  The  mod- 
ernness  or  antiquity  of  an  action,  therefore,  has  nothing 
to  do  with  its  fitness  for  poetical  representation  ;  this 
depends  upon  its  inherent  qualities.  To  the  elemen- 
tary part  of  our  nature,  to  our  passions,  that  which  is 
great  and  passionate  is  eternally  interesting ;  and  in- 
teresting solely  in  proportion  to  its  greatness  and  to 
its  passion.  A  great  human  action  of  a  thousand  years 
ago  is  more  interesting  to  it  than  a  smaller  human 
action  of  to-day,  even  though  upon  the  representation 
of  this  last  the  most  consummate  skill  may  have  been 
expended,  and  though  it  has  the  advantage  of  appeal- 
ing by  its  modern  language,  familiar  manners,  and 
contemporary  allusions,  to  all  our  transient  feelings 
and  interests.  These,  however,  have  no  right  to  de- 
mand of  a  poetical  work  that  it  shall  satisfy  them ; 
their  claims  are  to  be  directed  elsewhere.  Poetical 
works  belong  to  the  domain  of  our  permanent  pas- 
sions :  let  them  interest  these,  and  the  voice  of  all 
subordinate  claims  upon  them  is  at  once  silenced. 

Achilles,  Prometheus,  Clytemnestra,  Dido^ — what 
modern  poem  presents  personages  as  interesting,  even 
to  us  moderns,  as  these  personages  of  an  "  exhausted 
past"?  We  have  the  domestic  epic  dealing  with  the 
details  of  modern  life,  which  pass  daily  under  our  eyes  ; 
we  have  poems  representing  modern  personages  in 
contact  with  the  problems  of  modern  life,  moral,  intel- 
lectual, and  social ;  these  works  have  been  produced 
by  poets  the  most  distinguished  of  their  nation  and 
time  ;  yet  I  fearlessly  assert  that  Hermann  and  Doro- 
thea,  Childe  Harold^  Jocelyn^  the  Excursion^  leave 
the  reader  cold  in  comparison  with  the  effect  produced 
upon  him  by  the  latter  books  of  the  Iliad,  by  the 
Oresteia,  or  by  the  episode  of  Dido.  And  why  is  this  ? 


6  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Simply  because  in  the  three  last-named  cases  the  action 
is  greater,  the  personages  nobler,  the  situations  more 
intense :  and  this  is  the  true  basis  of  the  interest  in 
a  poetical  work,  and  this  alone. 

It  may  be  urged,  however,  that  past  actions  may 
be  interesting  in  themselves,  but  that  they  are  not  to 
be  adopted  by  the  modern  poet,  because  it  is  impos- 
sible for  him  to  have  them  clearly  present  to  his  own 
mind,  and  he  cannot  therefore  feel  them  deeply,  nor 
represent  them  forcibly.  But  this  is  not  necessarily 
the  case.  The  externals  of  a  past  action,  indeed,  he 
cannot  know  with  the  precision  of  a  contemporary; 
but  his  business  is  with  its  essentials.  The  outward 
man  of  CEdipus  ^  or  of  Macbeth,  the  houses  in  which 
they  lived,  the  ceremonies  of  their  courts,  he  cannot 
accurately  figure  to  himself ;  but  neither  do  they 
essentially  concern  him.  His  business  is  with  their 
inward  man ;  with  their  feelings  and  behavior  in  cer- 
tain tragic  situations,  which  engage  their  passions  as 
men ;  these  have  in  them  nothing  local  and  casual ; 
they  are  as  accessible  to  the  modern  poet  as  to  a  con- 
temporary. 

The  date  of  an  action,  then,  signifies  nothing:  the 
action  itself,  its  selection  and  construction,  this  is 
what  is  all-important.  This  the  Greeks  understood 
far  more  clearly  than  we  do.  The  radical  difference 
between  their  poetical  theory  and  ours  consists,  as  it 
appears  to  me,  in  this:  that,  with  them,  the  poetical 
character  of  the  action  in  itself,  and  the  conduct  of 
it,  was  the  first  consideration ;  with  us,  attention  is 
fixed  mainly  on  the  value  of  the  separate  thoughts 
and  images  which  occur  in  the  treatment  of  an  action. 
They  regarded  the  whole  ;  we  regard  the  parts.  With 
them,  the  action  predominated  over  the  expression  of 
it;   with  us,  the  expression   predominates    over    the 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  7 

action.  Not  that  they  failed  in  expression,  or  were 
inattentive  to  it ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  the  highest 
models  of  expression,  the  unapproached  masters  of 
the  grand  style :  ^  but  their  expression  is  so  excellent 
because  it  is  so  admirably  kept  in  its  right  degree  of 
prominence ;  because  it  is  so  simple  and  so  well  sub- 
ordinated ;  because  it  draws  its  force  directly  from 
the  pregnancy  of  the  matter  which  it  conveys.  For 
what  reason  was  the  Greek  tragic  poet  confined  to  so 
limited  a  range  of  subjects?  Because  there  are  so 
few  actions  which  unite  in  themselves,  in  the  highest 
degree,  the  conditions  of  excellence ;  and  it  was  not 
thought  that  on  any  but  an  excellent  subject  could  an 
excellent  poem  be  constructed.  A  few  actions,  there- 
fore, eminently  adapted  for  tragedy,  maintained  almost 
exclusive  possession  of  the  Greek  tragic  stage.  Their 
significance  appeared  inexhaustible ;  they  were  as  per- 
manent problems,  perpetually  offered  to  the  genius  of 
every  fresh  poet.  This  too  is  the  reason  of  what  appears 
to  us  moderns  a  certain  baldness  of  expression  in  Greek 
tragedy ;  of  the  triviality  with  which  we  often  reproach 
the  remarks  of  the  chorus,  where  it  takes  part  in  the 
dialogue  :  that  the  action  itself,  the  situation  of  Orestes, 
or  Merope,  or  Alcmaeon,^  was  to  stand  the  central  point 
of  interest,  unforgotten,  absorbing,  principal ;  that  no 
accessories  were  for  a  moment  to  distract  the  specta- 
tor's attention  from  this,  that  the  tone  of  the  parts  was 
to  be  perpetually  kept  down,  in  order  not  to  impair 
the  grandiose  effect  of  the  whole.  The  terrible  old 
mythic  story  on  which  the  drama  was  founded  stood, 
before  he  entered  the  theatre,  traced  in  its  bare  out- 
lines upon  the  spectator's  mind  ;  it  stood  in  his  mem- 
ory, as  a  group  of  statuary,  faintly  seen,  at  the  end  of 
a  long  and  dark  vista :  then  came  the  poet,  embody- 
ing outlines,  developing  situations,  not  a  word  wasted, 


8  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

not  a  sentiment  capriciously  thrown  in :  stroke  upon 
stroke,  the  drama  proceeded  :  the  light  deepened  upon 
the  group  ;  more  and  more  it  revealed  itself  to  the 
riveted  gaze  of  the  spectator :  until  at  last,  when  the 
final  words  were  spoken,  it  stood  before  him  in  broad 
sunlight,  a  model  of  immortal  beauty. 

This  was  what  a  Greek  critic  demanded  ;  this  was 
^  what  a  Greek  poet  endeavored  to  effect.  It  signified 
nothing  to  what  time  an  action  belonged.  We  do  not 
find  that  the  Persm  occupied  a  particularly  high  rank 
among  the  dramas  of  -^schylus  because  it  represented 
a  matter  of  contemporary  interest :  this  was  not  what 
a  cultivated  Athenian  required.  He  required  that  the 
permanent  elements  of  his  nature  should  be  moved  ; 
and  dramas  of  which  the  action,  though  taken  from  a 
long-distant  mythic  time,  yet  was  calculated  to  accom- 
plish this  in  a  higher  degree  than  that  of  the  Persm., 
stood  higher  in  his  estimation  accordingly.  The  Greeks 
felt,  no  doubt,  with  their  exquisite  sagacity  of  taste, 
that  an  action  of  present  times  was  too  near  them,  too 
much  mixed  up  with  what  was  accidental  and  passing, 
to  form  a  sufficiently  grand,  detached,  and  self-subsis- 
tent  object  for  a  tragic  poem.  Such  objects  belonged 
to  the  domain  of  the  comic  poet,  and  of  the  lighter 
kinds  of  poetry.  For  the  more  serious  kinds,  for 
jyracjmatlc  poetry,  to  use  an  excellent  expression  of 
Polybius,^  they  were  more  difficult  and  severe  in  the 
range  of  subjects  which  they  permitted.  Their  theory 
and  practice  alike,  the  admirable  treatise  of  Aristotle, 
and  the  unrivalled  works  of  their  poets,  exclaim  with 
a  thousand  tongues  —  "  All  depends  upon  the  subject ; 
choose  a  fitting  action,  penetrate  yourself  with  the 
feeling  of  its  situations ;  this  done,  everything  else  will 
foDow." 

But  for  all  kinds  of  poetry  alike  there  was  one  point 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  9 

on  which  they  were  rigidly  exacting;  the  adaptability 
of  the  subject  to  the  kind  of  poetry  selected,  and  the 
careful  construction  of  the  poem. 

How  different  a  way  of  thinking  from  this  is  ours ! 
We  can  hardly  at  the  present  day  understand  what 
Menander  ^  meant,  when  he  told  a  man  who  enquired 
as  to  the  progress  of  his  comedy  that  he  had  finished 
it,  not  having  yet  written  a  single  line,  because  he  had 
constructed  the  action  of  it  in  his  mind.  A  modern 
critic  would  have  assured  him  that  the  merit  of  his 
piece  depended  on  the  brilliant  things  which  arose 
under  his  pen  as  he  went  along.  We  have  poems  which 
seem  to  exist  merely  for  the  sake  of  single  lines  and 
passages ;  not  for  the  sake  of  producing  any  total- 
impression.  We  have  critics  who  seem  to  direct  their 
attention  merely  to  detached  expressions,  to  the  lan- 
guage about  the  action,  not  to  the  action  itself.  I  verily 
think  that  the  majority  of  them  do  not  in  their  hearts 
believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  total-impression 
to  be  derived  from  a  poem  at  all,  or  to  be  demanded 
from  a  poet ;  they  think  the  term  a  commonplace  of 
metaphysical  criticism.  They  will  permit  the  poet  to 
select  any  action  he  pleases,  and  to  suffer  that  action 
to  go  as  it  will,  provided  he  gratifies  them  with  occa- 
sional bursts  of  fine  writing,  and  with  a  shower  of  iso- 
lated thoughts  and  images.  That  is,  they  permit  him 
to  leave  their  poetical  sense  ungratified,  provided  that  he 
gratifies  their  rhetorical  sense  and  their  curiosity.  Of 
his  neglecting  to  gratify  these,  there  is  little  danger; 
he  needs  rather  to  be  warned  against  the  danger  of 
attempting  to  gratify  these  alone  ;  he  needs  rather 
to  be  perpetually  reminded  to  prefer  his  action  to 
everything  else;  so  to  treat  this,  as  to  permit  its 
inherent  excellences  to  develop  themselves,  without 
interruption  from  the  intrusion  of  his  personal  pecu- 


10  MATTHEW  ARNOLD' 

liarities:  most  fortunate  when  he  most  entirely  suc- 
ceeds in  effacing  himself,  and  in  enabling  a  noble  ac- 
tion to  subsist  as  it  did  in  nature. 

But  the  modern  critic  not  only  permits  a  false  prac- 
tice :  he  absolutely  prescribes  false  aims.  "  A  true 
allegory  of  the  state  of  one's  own  mind  in  a  repre- 
sentative history,"  the  poet  is  told,  "  is  perhaps  the 
highest  thing  that  one  can  attempt  in  the  way  of 
poetry."  And  accordingly  he  attempts  it.  An  alle- 
gory of  the  state  of  one's  own  mind,  the  highest  prob- 
lem of  an  art  which  imitates  actions  !  No  assuredly,  it 
is  not,  it  never  can  be  so :  no  great  poetical  work  has 
ever  been  produced  with  such  an  aim.  Faust  itself,  in 
which  something  of  the  kind  is  attempted,  wonderful 
passages  as  it  contains,  and  in  spite  of  the  unsurpassed 
beauty  of  the  scenes  which  relate  to  Margaret,  Faust 
itself,  judged  as  a  whole,  and  judged  strictly  as  a 
poetical  work,  is  defective :  its  illustrious  author,  the 
greatest  poet  of  modern  times,  the  greatest  critic  of 
all  times,  would  have  been  the  first  to  acknowledge  it ; 
he  only  defended  his  work,  indeed,  by  asserting  it  to 
be  "  something  incommensurable." 

The  confusion  of  the  present  times  is  great,  the 
multitude  of  voices  counselling  different  things  be- 
wildering, the  number  of  existing  works  capable  of 
attracting  a  young  writer's  attention  and  of  becoming 
his  models,  immense  :  what  he  wants  is  a  hand  to  guide 
him  through  the  confusion,  a  voice  to  prescribe  to  him 
the  aim  which  he  should  keep  in  view,  and  to  explain 
to  him  that  the  value  of  the  literary  works  which  offer 
themselves  to  his  attention  is  relative  to  their  power  of 
helping  him  forward  on  his  road  towards  this  aim. 
Such  a  guide  the  English  writer  at  the  present  day 
will  nowhere  find.  Failing  this,  all  that  can  be  looked 
for,  all  indeed  that  can  be  desired,  is,  that  his  atten- 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  11 

tion  should  be  fixed  on  excellent  models  ;  that  he  may 
reproduce,  at  any  rate,  something  of  their  excellence, 
by  penetrating  himself  with  their  works  and  by  catch- 
ing their  spirit,  if  he  cannot  be  taught  to  produce 
what  is  excellent  independently.    - '     - 

Foremost  among  these  models  for  the  English  writer 
stands  Shakespeare :  a  name  the  greatest  perhaps  of  all 
poetical  names ;  a  name  never  to  be  mentioned  without 
reverence.  I  will  venture,  however,  to  express  a  doubt 
whether  the  influence  of  his  works,  excellent  and  fruit- 
ful for  the  readers  of  poetry,  for  the  great  majority, 
has  been  an  unmixed  advantage  to  the  writers  of  it. 
Shakespeare  indeed  chose  excellent  subjects  —  the 
world  could  afford  no  better  than  3Iacbeth,  or  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  or  Othello :  he  had  no  theory  respecting 
the  necessity  of  choosing  subjects  of  present  import,  or 
the  paramount  interest  attaching  to  allegories  of  the 
state  of  one's  own  mind  ;  like  all  great  poets,  he  knew 
well  what  constituted  a  poetical  action;  like  them, 
wherever  he  found  such  an  action,  he  took  it ;  like 
them,  too,  he  found  his  best  in  past  times.  But  to  these 
general  characteristics  of  all  great  poets  he  added  a 
special  one  of  his  own  ;  a  gift,  namely,  of  happy,  abun- 
dant, and  ingenious  expression,  eminent  and  unrivalled : 
so  eminent  as  irresistibly  to  strike  the  attention  first 
in  him  and  even  to  throw  into  comparative  shade  his 
other  excellences  as  a  poet.  Here  has  been  the  mis- 
chief. These  other  excellences  were  his  fundamental 
excellences  as  a  poet ;  what  distinguishes  the  artist 
from  the  mere  amateur,  says  Goethe,  is  Architectoiwk 
in  the  highest  sense  ;  that  power  of  execution  which 
creates,  forms,  and  constitutes :  not  the  profoundness  of 
single  thoughts,  not  the  richness  of  imagery,  not  the 
abundance  of  illustration.  But  these  attractive  acces- 
sories of  a  poetical  work  being  more  easily  seized  than 


12  INLVTTHEW  .\RXOLD 

the  spirit  of  the  whole,  and  these  accessories  being 
possessed  by  Shakespeare  in  an  unequalled  degree,  a 
young  writer  having  recourse  to  Shakespeare  as  his 
model  runs  great  risk  of  being  vanquished  and  ab- 
sorbed by  them,  and,  in  consequence,  of  reproducing, 
according  to  the  measure  of  his  power,  these,  and  these 
alone.  Of  this  prepondering  quality  of  Shakespeare's 
genius,  accordingly,  almost  the  whole  of  modern  Eng- 
lish poetry  has,  it  appears  to  me,  felt  the  influence. 
To  the  exclusive  attention  on  the  part  of  his  imita- 
tors to  this,  it  is  in  a  great  degree  owing  that  of  the 
majority  of  modern  poetical  works  the  details  alone  are 
valuable,  the  composition  worthless.  In  reading  them 
one  is  pei-^jetually  reminded  of  that  terrible  sentence 
on  a  modern  French  poet,  —  il  dit  tout  ce  qiiil  veut, 
metis  malheiireiisement  il  na  rien  a  dire.^ 

Let  me  give  an  instance  of  what  I  mean.  I  will  take 
it  from  the  works  of  the  very  chief  among  those  who 
seem  to  have  been  formed  in.  the  school  of  Shake- 
speare ;  of  one  whose  exquisite  genius  and  pathetic 
death  render  him  forever  interesting.  I  will  take  the 
poem  of  laahella,  or  the  Pot  of  Basil,  by  Keats.  I 
choose  this  rather  than  the  Endymion,  because  the 
latter  work  (which  a  modern  critic  has  classed  with  the 
Faery  Queen  /),  although  undoubtedly  there  blows 
through  it  the  breath  of  genius,  is  yet  as  a  whole  so 
utterly  incoherent,  as  not  strictly  to  merit  the  name 
of  a  poem  at  all.  The  poem  of  Isabella,  then,  is  a  per- 
fect treasure-house  of  graceful  and  felicitous  words  and 
images :  almost  in  every  stanza  there  occurs  one  of  those 
vivid  and  picturesque  turns  of  expression,  by  which 
the  object  is  made  to  flash  upon  the  eye  of  the  mind, 
and  which  thrill  the  reader  with  a  sudden  delight. 
This  one  short  poem  contains,  perhaps,  a  greater  num- 
ber of  happy  single  expressions  which  one  could  quote 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  13 

than  all  the  extant  tragedies  of  Sophocles.  But  the 
action,  the  story  ?  The  action  in  itself  is  an  excellent 
one ;  but  so  feebly  is  it  conceived  by  the  poet,  so 
loosely  constructed,  that  the  effect  produced  by  it,  in 
and  for  itself,  is  absolutely  null.  Let  the  reader,  after 
he  has  finished  the  poem  of  Keats,  turn  to  the  same 
story  in  the  Decameron :  ^  he  will  then  feel  how 
pregnant  and  interesting  the  same  action  has  become 
in  the  hands  of  a  great  artist,  who  above  all  things 
delineates  his  object ;  who  subordinates  expression  to 
that  which  it  is  designed  to  express. 

I  have  said  that  the  imitators  of  Shakespeare,  fixing 
their  attention  on  his  wonderful  gift  of  expression, 
have  directed  their  imitation  to  this,  neglecting  his 
other  excellences.  These  excellences,  the  fundamental 
excellences  of  poetical  art,  Shakespeare  no  doubt  pos- 
sessed them  —  possessed  many  of  them  in  a  splendid 
degree ;  but  it  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  even 
he  himself  did  not  sometimes  give  scope  to  his  faculty 
of  expression  to  the  prejudice  of  a  higher  poetical  duty. 
For  we  must  never  forget  that  Shakespeare  is  the 
great  poet  he  is  from  his  skill  in  discerning  and  firmly 
conceiving  an  excellent  action,  from  his  power  of 
intensely  feeling  a  situation,  of  intimately  associating 
himself  with  a  character ;  not  from  his  gift  of  expres- 
sion, which  rather  even  leads  him  astray,  degenerating 
sometimes  into  a  fondness  for  curiosity  of  expression, 
into  an  irritability  of  fancy,  which  seems  to  make  it 
impossible  for  him  to  say  a  thing  plainly,  even  when 
the  press  of  the  action  demands  the  very  directest 
language,  or  its  level  character  the  very  simplest.  Mr. 
Hallam,^  than  whom  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  saner 
and  more  judicious  critic,  has  had  the  courage  (for  at 
the  present  day  it  needs  courage)  to  remark,  how 
extremely  and  faultily  difficult  Shakespeare's  language 


14  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

often  is.  It  Is  so  :  you  may  find  main  scenes  in  some 
of  his  greatest  tragedies,  King  Lear,  for  instance, 
where  the  language  is  so  artificial,  so  curiously  tor- 
tured, and  so  difficult,  that  every  speech  has  to  be  read 
two  or  three  times  before  its  meaning  can  be  compre- 
hended. This  over-curiou»ness  of  expression  is  indeed 
but  the  excessive  employment  of  a  wonderful  gift  — 
of  the  power  of  sayiug  a  thing  in  a  happier  way  than 
any  other  man  ;  nevertheless,  it  is  carried  so  far  that 
one  understands  what  M.  Guizot^  meant  when  he  said 
that  Shakespeare  appears  in  his  language  to  have  tried 
all  styles  except  that  of  simplicity.  He  has  not  the 
severe  and  scrupulous  self-restraint  of  the  ancients, 
partly,  no  doubt,  because  he  had  a  far  less  cultivated 
and  exacting  audience.  He  has  indeed  a  far  wider 
range  than  they  had,  a  far  richer  fertility  of  thought ; 
in  this  respect  he  rises  above  them.  In  his  strong  con- 
ception of  his  subject,  in  the  genuine  way  in  which  he 
is  penetrated  with  it,  he  resembles  them,  and  is  unlike 
the  moderns.  But  in  the  accurate  limitation  of  it,  the 
conscientious  rejection  of  superfluities,  the  simple  and 
rigorous  development  of  it  from  the  first  line  of  his 
work  to  the  last,  he  falls  below  them,  and  comes  nearer 
to  the  modems.  In  his  chief  works,  besides  what  he 
has  of  his  own,  he  has  the  elementary  soundness  of 
the  ancients  ;  he  has  their  important  action  and  their 
large  and  broad  manner ;  but  he  has  not  their  purity 
of  method.  He  is  therefore  a  less  safe  model  ;  for  what 
he  has  of  his  own  is  personal,  and  inseparable  from 
his  own  rich  nature  ;  it  may  be  imitated  and  exagger- 
ated, it  cannot  be  learned  or  applied  as  an  art.  He  is 
above  all  suggestive ;  more  valuable,  therefore,  to 
young  writers  as  men  than  as  artists.  But  clearness 
of  arrangement,  rigor  of  development,  simplicity  of 
style  —  these  may  to  a  certain  extent  be  learned :  and 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  15 

these  may,  I  am  convinced,  be  learned  best  from  the 
ancients,  who,  although  infinitely  less  suggestive  than 
Shakespeare,  are  thus,  to  the  artist,  more  instructive. 
What  then,  it  will  be  asked,  are  the  ancients  to  be 
our  sole  models  ?  the  ancients  with  their  comparatively 
narrow  range  of  experience,  and  their  widely  different 
circumstances  ?  Not,  certainly,  that  which  is  narrow 
in  the  ancients,  nor  that  in  which  we  can  no  longer 
sympathize.  An  action  like  the  action  of  the  Antig- 
one of  Sophocles,  which  turns  upon  the  conflict  between 
the  heroine's  duty  to  her  brother's  corpse  and  that 
to  the  laws  of  her  country,  is  no  longer  one  in  which 
it  is  possible  that  we  should  feel  a  deep  interest.  I 
am  speaking  too,  it  will  be  remembered,  not  of  the 
best  sources  of  intellectual  stimulus  for  the  general 
reader,  but  of  the  best  models  of  instruction  for  the 
individual  writer.  This  last  may  certainly  learn  of  the 
ancients,  better  than  anywhere  else,  three  things  which 
it  is  vitally  important  for  him  to  know :  —  the  all- 
importance  of  the  choice  of  a  subject ;  the  necessity  of 
accurate  construction  ;  and  the  subordinate  character 
of  expression.  He  will  learn  from  them  how  unspeak- 
ably superior  is  the  effect  of  the  one  moral  impression 
left  by  a  great  action  treated  as  a  whole,  to  the  effect 
produced  by  the  most  striking  single  thought  or  by 
the  happiest  image.  As  he  penetrates  into  the  spirit 
of  the  great  classical  works,  as  he  becomes  gradually 
aware  of  their  intense  significance,  their  noble  sim- 
plicity, and  their  calm  pathos,  he  will  be  convinced 
that  it  is  this  effect,  unity  and  profoundness  of  moral 
impression,  at  which  the  ancient  poets  aimed  ;  that  it 
is  this  which  constitutes  the  grandeur  of  their  works, 
and  which  makes  them  immortal.  He  will  desire  to 
direct  his  own  efforts  towards  producing  the  same 
effect.  Above  all,  he  will  deliver  himself  from  the 


16  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

jargon  of  modern  criticism,  and  escape  the  danger 
of  producing  poetical  works  conceived  in  the  spirit  of 
the  passing  time,  and  which  partake  of  its  transito- 
riness. 

The  present  age  makes  great  claims  upon  us  :  we 
owe  it  service,  it  will  not  be  satisfied  without  our 
admiration.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  their  commerce 
with  the  ancients  appears  to  me  to  produce,  in  those 
who  constantly  practise  it,  a  steadying  and  composing 
effect  upon  their  judgment,  not  of  literary  works  only, 
but  of  men  and  events  in  general.  They  are  like  per- 
sons who  have  had  a  very  weighty  and  impressive 
experience  ;  they  are  more  truly  than  others  under  the 
empire  of  facts,  and  more  independent  of  the  language 
current  among  those  with  whom  they  live.  They  wish 
neither  to  applaud  nor  to  revile  their  age :  they  wish 
to  know  what  it  is,  what  it  can  give  them,  and  whether 
this  is  what  they  want.  What  they  want,  they  know 
very  well  ;  they  want  to  educe  and  cultivate  what  is 
best  and  noblest  in  themselves  :  they  know,  too,  that 
this  is  no  easy  task  —  -x^aXeTrov  as  Pittacus  ^  said,  X^X- 
eirov  iadXov  e/x/jbevat — and  they  ask  themselves  sincerely 
whether  their  age  and  its  literature  can  assist  them 
in  the  attempt.  If  they  are  endeavoring  to  practise 
any  art,  they  remember  the  plain  and  simple  proceed- 
ings of  the  old  artists,  who  attained  their  grand 
results  by  penetrating  themselves  with  some  noble  and 
significant  action,  not  by  inflating  themselves  with  a 
belief  in  the  preeminent  importance  and  greatness  of 
their  own  times.  They  do  not  talk  of  their  mission, 
nor  of  interpreting  their  age,  nor  of  the  coming  poet ; 
all  this,  they  know,  is  the  mere  delirium  of  vanity ; 
their  business  is  not  to  praise  their  age,  but  to  afford 
to  the  men  who  live  in  it  the  highest  pleasure  which 
they  are  capable  of  feeling.   If  asked  to  afford  this  by 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  17 

means  of  subjects  drawn  from  the  age  itself,  they  ask 
what  special  fitness  the  present  age  has  for  supplying 
them.  They  are  told  that  it  is  an  era  of  progress, 
an  age  commissioned  to  carry  out  the  great  ideas  of 
industrial  development  and  social  amelioration.  They 
reply  that  with  all  this  they  can  do  nothing  ;  that  the 
elements  they  need  for  the  exercise  of  their  art  are 
great  actions,  calculated  powerfully  and  delightfully  to 
affect  what  is  permanent  in  the  human  soul ;  that  so 
far  as  the  present  age  can  supply  such  actions,  they 
will  gladly  make  use  of  them  ;  but  that  an  age  want- 
ing in  moral  grandeur  can  with  difficulty  supply  such, 
and  an  age  of  spiritual  discomfort  with  difficulty  be 
powerfully  and  delightfully  affected  by  them. 

A  host  of  voices  will  indignantly  rejoin  that  the 
present  age  is  inferior  to  the  past  neither  in  moral 
grandeur  nor  in  spiritual  health.  He  who  possesses  the 
discipline  I  speak  of  will  content  himself  with  remem- 
bering the  judgments  passed  upon  the  present  age,  in 
this  respect,  by  the  men  of  strongest  head  and  widest 
culture  whom  it  has  produced ;  by  Goethe  and  by  Nie- 
buhr.i  It  will  be  sufficient  for  him  that  he  knows  the 
opinions  held  by  these  two  great  men  respecting  the 
present  age  and  its  literature ;  and  that  he  feels  assured 
in  his  own  mind  that  their  aims  and  demands  upon  life 
were  such  as  he  would  wish,  at  any  rate,  his  own  to 
be;  and  their  judgment  as  to  what  is  impeding  and 
disabling  such  as  he  may  safely  follow.  He  will  not, 
however,  maintain  a  hostile  attitude  towards  the  false 
pretensions  of  his  age  ;  he  will  content  himself  with  not 
being  overwhelmed  by  them.  He  will  esteem  himself 
fortunate  if  he  can  succeed  in  banishing  from  his  mind 
all  feelings  of  contradiction,  and  irritation,  and  impa- 
tience ;  in  order  to  delight  himself  with  the  contem- 
plation of  some  noble  action  of  a  heroic  time,  and  to 


18  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

enable  others,  through  his  representation  of  it,  to  de- 
light in  it  also. 

I  am  far  indeed  from  making  any  claim,  for  my- 
self, that  I  possess  tliis  discipline  ;  or  for  the  follow- 
ing poems,  that  they  breathe  its  spirit.  But  I  say,, 
that  in  the  sincere  endeavor  to  learn  and  practise, 
amid  the  bewildering  confusion  of  our  times,  what  is 
sound  and  true  in  poetical  art,  I  seemed  to  myself  to 
find  the  only  sure  guidance,  the  only  solid  footing, 
among  the  ancients.  They,  at  any  rate,  knew  what 
they  wanted  in  art,  and  we  do  not.  It  is  this  uncer- 
taintj'  which  is  disheartening,  and  not  hostile  criticism. 
How  often  have  I  felt  this  when  reading  words  of  dis- 
paragement or  of  cavil :  that  it  is  the  imcertainty  as 
to  what  is  really  to  be  aimed  at  which  makes  our  dif- 
ficulty, not  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  critic,  who  himself 
suffers  from  the  same  uncertainty.  i\"o/?  me  tua  fer- 
vida  terrent  Dicta  ;  .  .  .  Dii  me  terrent,  et  Jupiter 
hostis.^ 

Two  kinds  of  dilettanti^  says  Goethe,  there  are  in 
poetry :  he  who  neglects  the  indispensable  mechanical 
part,  and  thinks  he  has  done  enough  if  he  shows  spir- 
ituality and  feeling  ;  and  he  who  seeks  to  arrive  at 
poetry  merely  by  mechanism,  in  which  he  can  acquire 
an  artisan's  readiness,  and  is  without  soul  and  matter. 
And  he  adds,  that  the  first  does  most  harm  to  art, 
and  the  last  to  himself.  If  we  must  be  dilettanti :  if  it 
is  impossible  for  us,  under  the  circumstances  amidst 
which  we  live,  to  think  clearly,  to  feel  nobly,  and  to 
delineate  firmly  :  if  we  cannot  attain  to  the  mastery 
of  the  great  artists  —  let  us,  at  least,  have  so  much 
respect  for  our  art  as  to  prefer  it  to  ourselves.  Let  us 
not  bewilder  our  successors  :  let  us  transmit  to  them 
the  practice  of  poetry,  with  its  boundaries  and  whole- 
some regulative  laws,  under  which  excellent  works 


POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS  19 

may  again,  perhaps,  at  some  future  time,  be  produced, 
not  yet  fallen  into  oblivion  through  our  neglect,  not 
yet  condemned  and  cancelled  by  the  influence  of  their 
eternal  enemy,  caprice. 


THE   FUNCTION   OF  CRITICISM   AT   THE 
PRESENT   TIMEi 

Many  objections  have  been  made  to  a  proposition 
which,  in  some  remarks  of  mine^  on  translating 
Homer,  I  ventured  to  put  forth  ;  a  proposition  about 
criticism,  and  its  importance  at  the  present  day.  I 
said  :  "  Of  the  literature  of  France  and  Germany,  as 
of  the  intellect  of  Europe  in  general,  the  main  effort, 
for  now  many  years,  has  been  a  critical  effort ;  the 
endeavor,  in  all  branches  of  knowledge,  theology, 
philosophy,  history,  art,  science,  to  see  the  object  as 
in  itself  it  really  is."  I  added,  that  owing  to  the  oper- 
ation in  English  literature  of  certain  causes,  "  almost 
the  last  thing  for  which  one  would  come  to  English 
literature  is  just  that  very  thing  which  now  Europe 
most  desires,  —  criticism  "  ;  and  that  the  power  and 
value  of  English  literature  was  thereby  impaired. 
More  than  one  rejoinder  declared  that  the  importance 
I  here  assigned  to  criticism  was  excessive,  and  as- 
serted the  inherent  superiority  of  the  creative  effort 
of  the  human  spirit  over  its  critical  effort.  And  the 
other  day,  having  been  led  by  a  Mr.  Shairp's  ^  excel- 
lent notice  of  Wordsworth  ^  to  turn  again  to  his  biog- 
raphy, I  found,  in  the  words  of  this  great  man,  whom 
I,  for  one,  must  always  listen  to  with  the  profoundest 
respect,  a  sentence  passed  on  the  critic's  business, 
which  seems  to  justify  every  possible  disparagement 
of  it.  Wordsworth  says  in  one  of  his  letters  ^  :  — 

"The  writers  in  these  publications"  (the  Reviews), 
"  while  they  prosecute  their  inglorious  employment, 
cannot  be  supposed  to  be  in  a  state  of  mind  very 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  21 

favorable  for  being  affected  by  the  finer  influences 
of  a  thing  so  pure  as  genuine  poetry." 

And  a  trustworthy  reporter  of  his  conversation 
quotes  a  more  elaborate  judgment  to  the  same  effect :  — 

"  Wordsworth  holds  the  critical  power  very  low, 
infinitely  lower  than  the  inventive  ;  and  he  sai-d  to-day 
that  if  the  quantity  of  time  consumed  in  writing  cri- 
tiques on  the  works  of  others  were  given  to  original 
composition,  of  whatever  kind  it  might  be,  it  would 
be  much  better  employed ;  it  would  make  a  man  find 
out  sooner  his  own  level,  and  it  would  do  infinitely 
less  mischief.  A  false  or  malicious  criticism  may  do 
much  injury  to  the  minds  of  others,  a  stupid  invention, 
either  in  prose  or  verse,  is  quite  harmless." 

It  is  almost  too  much  to  expect  of  poor  human 
nature,  that  a  man  capable  of  producing  some  effect 
in  one  line  of  literature,  should,  for  the  greater  good  of 
society,  voluntarily  doom  himself  to  impotence  and 
obscurity  in  another.  Still  less  is  this  to  be  expected 
from  men  addicted  to  the  composition  of  the  "  false 
or  malicious  criticism  "  of  which  Wordsworth  speaks. 
However,  everybody  would  admit  that  a  false  or  ma- 
licious criticism  had  better  never  have  been  written. 
Everybody,  too,  would  be  willing  to  admit,  as  a  gen- 
eral proposition,  that  the  critical  faculty  is  lower  than 
the  inventive.  But  is  it  true  that  criticism  is  really, 
in  itself,  a  baneful  and  injurious  employment ;  is  it 
true  that  all  time  given  to  writing  critiques  on  the 
works  of  others  would  be  much  better  employed  if  it 
were  given  to  original  composition,  of  whatever  kind 
this  may  be?  Is  it  true  that  Johnson  had  better  have 
gone  on  producing  more  Irenes^  instead  of  writing  his 
Lives  of  the  Poets  ;  nay,  is  it  certain  that  Words- 
worth himself  was  better  employed  in  making  his 
Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  than  when  he  made  his  cele- 


22  ^L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

brated  Preface^  so  full  of  criticism,  and  criticism  of 
the  works  of  others  ?  Wordsworth  was  himself  a 
great  critic,  and  it  is  to  be  sincerely  regretted  that 
he  has  not  left  us  more  criticism  ;  Goethe  was  one  of 
the  greatest  of  critics,  and  we  may  sincerely  congratu- 
late ourselves  that  he  has  left  us  so  much  criticism. 
Without  wasting  time  over  the  exaggeration  which 
Wordsworth's  judgment  on  criticism  clearly  contains, 
or  over  an  attempt  to  trace  th€  causes,  —  not  difficult, 
I  think,  to  be  traced,  —  which  may  have  led  Words- 
worth to  this  exaggeration,  a  critic  may  with  advan- 
tage seize  an  occasion  for  trying  his  own  conscience, 
and  for  asking  himself  of  what  real  service  at  any 
given  moment  the  practice  of  criticism  either  is  or 
may  be  made  to  his  own  mind  and  spirit,  and  to  the 
minds  and  spirits  of  others. 

The  critical  power  is  of  lower  rank  than  the  crea- 
tive. True  ;  but  in  assenting  to  this  proposition,  one 
or  two  things  are  to  be  kept  in  mind.  It  is  undeniable 
that  the  exercise  of  a  creative  power,  that  a  free 
creative  activity,  is  the  highest  function  of  man;  it  is 
proved  to  be  so  by  man's  finding  in  it  his  true  hap- 
piness. But  it  is  undeniable,  also,  that  men  may  have 
the  sense  of  exercising  this  free  creative  activity  in 
other  ways  than  in  producing  great  works  of  liter- 
ature or  art ;  if  it  were  not  so,  all  but  a  very  few  men 
would  be  shut  out  from  the  true  happiness  of  all 
men.  They  may  have  it  in  well-doing,  they  may  have 
it  in  learning,  they  may  have  it  even  in  criticizing. 
This  is  one  thing  to  be  kept  in  mind.  Another  is, 
that  the  exercise  of  the  creative  power  in  the  pro- 
duction of  great  works  of  literature  or  art,  however 
high  this  exercise  of  it  may  rank,  is  not  at  all  epochs 
and  under  all  conditions  possible  ;  and  that  therefore 
labor  may  be  vainly  spent   in  attempting  it,  which 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  23 

might  with  more  fruit  be  used  in  preparing  for  it, 
in  rendering  it  possible.  This  creative  power  works 
with  elements,  with  materials  ;  what  if  it  has  not 
those  materials,  those  elements,  ready  for  its  use? 
In  that  case  it  must  surely  wait  till  they  are  ready. 
Now,  in  literature, —  I  will  limit  myself  to  liter- 
ature, for  it  is  about  literature  that  the  question 
arises,  —  the  elements  with  which  the  creative  power 
works  are  ideas ;  the  best  ideas  on  every  matter 
which  literature  touches,  current  at  the  time.  At 
any  rate  we  may  lay  it  down  as  certain  that  in  mod- 
ern literature  no  manifestation  of  the  creative  power 
not  working  with  these  can  be  very  important  or 
fruitful.  And  I  say  current  at  the  time,  not  merely 
accessible  at  the  time ;  for  creative  literary  genius 
does  not  principally  show  itself  in  discovering  new 
ideas :  that  is  rather  the  business  of  the  philosopher. 
The  grand  work  of  literary  genius  is  a  work  of  syn- 
thesis and  exposition,  not  of  analysis  and  discovery  ; 
its  gift  lies  in  the  faculty  of  being  happily  inspired 
by  a  certain  intellectual  and  spiritual  atmosphere,  by 
a  certain  order  of  ideas,  when  it  finds  itself  in  them  ; 
of  dealing  divinely  with  these  ideas,  presenting  them 
in  the  most  effective  and  attractive  combinations, — 
making  beautiful  works  with  them,  in  short.  But  it 
must  have  the  atmosphere,  it  must  find  itself  amidst 
the  order  of  ideas,  in  order  to  work  freely  ;  and  these 
it  is  not  so  easy  to  command.  This  is  why  great  crea- 
tive epochs  in  literature  are  so  rare,  this  is  why 
there  is  so  much  that  is  unsatisfactory  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  many  men  of  real  genius ;  because,  for 
the  creation  of  a  master-work  of  literature  two  powers 
must  concur,  the  power  of  the  man  and  the  power 
of  the  moment,  and  the  man  is  not  enough  without 
the  moment ;  the  creative  power  has,  for  its  happy 


24  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

exercise,  appointed  elements,  and  those  elements  are 
not  in  its  own  control. 

Nay,  they  are  moi-e  within  the  control  o£  the  criti- 
cal power.  It  is  the  business  of  the  critical  power,  as 
I  said  in  the  words  already  quoted,  "  in  all  branches 
of  knowledge,  theology,  philosophy,  history,  art,  sci- 
ence, to  see  the  object  as  in  itself  it  really  is."  Thus 
it  tends,  at  last,  to  make  an  intellectual  situation  of 
which  the  creative  power  can  profitably  avail  itself. 
It  tends  to  establish  an  order  of  ideas,  if  not  abso- 
lutely true,  yet  true  by  comparison  with  that  which 
it  displaces  ;  to  make  the  best  ideas  prevail.  Presently 
these  new  ideas  reach  society,  the  touch  of  truth  is 
the  touch  of  life,  and  there  is  a  stir  and  growth  every- 
where ;  out  of  this  stir  and  growth  come  the  creative 
epochs  of  literature. 

Or,  to  narrow  our  range,  and  quit  these  considera- 
tions of  the  general  march  of  genius  and  of  society, 
—  considerations  which  are  apt  to  become  too  abstract 
and  impalpable,  —  every  one  can  see  that  a  poet,  for 
instance,  ought  to  know  life  and  the  world  before 
dealing  with  them  in  poetry ;  and  life  and  the  world 
being  in  modern  times  very  complex  things,  the  crea- 
tion of  a  modern  poet,  to  be  worth  much,  implies  a 
great  critical  effort  behind  it ;  else  it  must  be  a. com- 
paratively poor,  barren,  and  short-lived  affair.  This 
is  why  Byron's  poetry  had  so  little  endurance  in  it, 
and  Goethe's  so  much ;  both  Byron  and  Goethe  had  a 
great  productive  power,  but  Goethe's  was  nourished  by 
a  great  critical  effort  providing  the  true  materials  for 
it,  and  Byron's  was  not ;  Goethe  knew  life  and  the 
world,  the  poet's  necessary  subjects,  much  more  com- 
prehensively and  thoroughly  than  Byron.  He  knew  a 
great  deal  more  of  them,  and  he  knew  them  much  more 
as  they  really  are. 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  25 

It  has  long  seemed  to  me  that  the  burst  of  creative 
activity  in  our  literature,  through  the  first  quarter 
of  this  century,  had  about  it  in  fact  something  prema- 
ture ;  and  that  from  this  cause  its  productions  are 
doomed,  most  of  them,  in  spite  of  the  sanguine  hopes 
which  accompanied  and  do  still  accompany  them,  to 
prove  hardly  more  lasting  than  the  productions  of  far 
less  splendid  epochs.  And  this  prematureness  comes 
from  its  having  proceeded  without  having  its  proper 
data,  without  sufficient  materials  to  work  with.  In 
other  words,  the  English  j)oetry  of  the  first  quarter  of 
this  century,  with  plenty  of  energy,  plenty  of  creative 
force,  did  not  know  enough.  This  makes  Byron  so 
empty  of  matter,  Shelley  so  incoherent,  Wordsworth 
even,  profound  as  he  is,  yet  so  wanting  in  completeness 
and  variety.  Wordsworth  cared  little  for  books,  and 
disparaged  Goethe.  I  admire  Wordsworth,  as  he  is, 
so  much  that  I  cannot  wish  him  different ;  and  it  is 
vain,  no  doubt,  to  imagine  such  a  man  different  from 
what  he  is,  to  suppose  that  he  coidd  have  been  different. 
But  surely  the  one  thing  wanting  to  make  Wordsworth 
an  even  greater  poet  than  he  is,  —  his  thought  richer, 
and  his  influence  of  wider  application,  —  was  that  he 
should  have  read  more  books,  among  them,  no  doubt, 
those  of  that  Goethe  whom  he  disparaged  without 
reading  him. 

But  to  speak  of  books  and  reading  may  easily  lead 
to  a  misunderstanding  hei'e.  It  was  not  really  books 
and  reading  that  lacked  to  our  poetry  at  this  epoch : 
Shelley  had  plenty  of  reading,  Coleridge  had  immense 
reading.  Pindar  and  Sophocles  —  as  we  all  say  so 
glibly,  and  often  with  so  little  discernment  of  the  real 
import  of  what  we  are  saying  —  had  not  many  books  ; 
Shakespeare  was  no  deep  reader.  True  ;  but  in  the 
Greece  of  Pindar  and  Sophocles,  in  the  England  of 


26  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Shakespeare,  the  poet  lived  in  a  current  of  ideas  in  the 
highest  degree  animating  and  nourishing  to  the  crea- 
tive power;  society  was,  in  the  fullest  measure,  per- 
meated by  fresh  thought,  intelligent  and  alive.  And 
this  state  of  things  is  the  true  basis  for  the  creative 
power's  exercise,  in  this  it  finds  its  data,  its  materials, 
truly  ready  for  its  hand  ;  all  the  books  and  reading  in 
the  world  are  only  valuable  as  they  are  helps  to  this. 
Even  when  this  does  not  actually  exist,  books  and  read- 
ing may  enable  a  man  to  construct  a  kind  of  semblance 
of  it  in  his  own  mind,  a  world  of  knowledge  and  in- 
telligence in  which  he  may  live  and  work.  This  is  by 
no  means  an  equivalent  to  the  artist  for  the  nationally 
diffused  life  and  thought  of  the  epochs  of  Sophocles 
or  Shakespeare  ;  but,  besides  that  it  may  be  a  means 
of  preparation  for  such  epochs,  it  does  really  consti- 
tute, if  many  share  in  it,  a  quickening  and  sustaining 
atmosphere  of  great  value.  Such  an  atmosphere  the 
many-sided  learning  and  the  long  and  wideh'  combined 
critical  effort  of  Germany  formed  for  Goethe,  when 
he  lived  and  worked.  There  was  no  national  glow  of 
life  and  thought  there  as  in  the  Athens  of  Pericles  or 
the  England  of  Elizabeth.  That  was  the  poet's  weak- 
ness. But  there  was  a  sort  of  equivalent  for  it  in  the 
complete  culture  and  unfettered  thinking  of  a  large 
body  of  Germans.  That  was  his  strength.  In  the  Eng- 
land of  the  first  quarter  of  this  century  there  was 
neither  a  national  glow  of  life  and  thought,  such  as 
we  had  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  nor  yet  a  culture  and 
a  force  of  learning  and  criticism  such  as  were  to  be 
found  in  Germany.  Therefore  the  creative  power  of 
poetry  wanted,  for  success  in  the  highest  sense,  mate- 
rials and  a  basis  ;  a  thorough  interpretation  of  the 
world  was  necessarily  denied  to  it. 

At  first  sight  it  seems  strange  that  out  of  the  immense 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  27 

stir  of  the  French  Revolution  and  its  age  should  not 
have  come  a  crop  of  works  of  genius  equal  to  that 
which  came  out  of  the  stir  of  the  great  productive  time 
of  Greece,  or  out  of  that  of  the  Renascence,  with  its 
powerful  episode  the  Reformation.  But  the  truth  is  that 
the  stir  of  the  French  Revolution  took  a  character  which 
essentially  distinguished  it  from  such  movements  as 
these.  These  were,  in  the  main,  disinterestedly  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  movements  ;  movements  in  which 
the  human  spirit  looked  for  its  satisfaction  in  itself 
and  in  the  increased  play  of  its  own  activity.  The 
French  Revolution  took  a  political,  practical  character. 
The  movement,  which  went  on  in  France  under  the 
old  regime,  from  1700  to  1789,  was  far  more  really 
akin  than  that  of  the  Revolution  itself  to  the  move- 
ment of  the  Renascence  ;  the  France  of  Voltaire  and 
Rousseau  told  far  more  powerfully  upon  the  mind  of 
Europe  than  the  France  of  the  Revolution.  Goethe 
reproached  this  last  expressly  with  having  "  thrown 
quiet  culture  back."  Nay,  and  the  true  key  to  how 
much  in  our  Byron,  even  in  our  Wordsworth,  is  this  ! 
—  that  they  had  their  source  in  a  great  movement  of 
feeling,  not  in  a  great  movement  of  mind.  The  French 
Revolution,  however,  —  that  object  of  so  much  blind 
love  and  so  much  blind  hati-ed,  —  found  undoubtedly 
its  motive-power  in  the  intelligence  of  men,  and  not  in 
their  practical  sense  ;  this  is  what  distinguishes  it  from 
the  English  Revolution  of  Chai'les  the  First's  time. 
This  is  what  makes  it  a  more  spiritual  event  than  our 
Revolution,  an  event  of  much  more  powerful  and 
woi'ld-wide  interest,  though  practically  less  successful ; 
it  appeals  to  an  order  of  ideas  which  are  universal, 
certain,  permanent.  1789  asked  of  a  thing.  Is  it 
rational?  1642  asked  of  a  thing.  Is  it  legal?  or,  when 
it  went  furthest,  Is  it  according  to  conscience  ?  This 


28  ALVTTHEW  ARNOLD 

is  the  English  fashion,  a  fashion  to  be  treated,  wdthin 
its  own  sj^here,  with  the  highest  respect ;  for  its  suc- 
cess, within  its  own  sphere,  has  been  prodigious.  But 
what  is  law  in  one  place  is  not  law  in  another  ;  what 
is  law  here  to-day  is  not  law  even  here  to-morrow  ;  and 
as  for  conscience,  what  is  binding  on  one  man's  con- 
science is  not  binding  on  another's.  The  old  woman  ^ 
who  threw  her  stool  at  the  head  of  the  surpliced  min- 
ister in  St.  Giles's  Church  at  Edinburgh  obeyed  an 
impulse  to  which  millions  of  the  human  race  may  be 
permitted  to  remain  strangers.  But  the  prescriptions 
of  reason  are  absolute,  unchanging,  of  universal  valid- 
ity ;  to  cowit  hy  tens  is  the  easiest  icay  of  coiinting  — 
that  is  a  proposition  of  which  every  one,  from  here  to 
the  Antipodes,  feels  the  force  ;  at  least  I  shoidd  say  so 
if  we  did  not  live  in  a  country  where  it  is  not  impos- 
sible that  any  morning  we  may  find  a  letter  in  the 
Times  declaring  that  a  decimal  coinage  is  an  absurd- 
ity. That  a  whole  nation  should  have  been  penetrated 
with  an  enthusiasm  for  pure  reason,  and  with  an  ardent 
zeal  for  making  its  prescriptions  triumph,  is  a  very 
remarkable  thing,  when  we  consider  how  little  of  mind, 
or  anything  so  worthy  and  quickening  as  mind,  comes 
into  the  motives  which  alone,  in  general,  impel  great 
masses  of  men.  In  spite  of  the  extravagant  direction 
given  to  this  enthusiasm,  in  spite  of  the  crimes  and 
follies  in  which  it  lost  itself,  the  French  Revolution 
derives  from  the  force,  truth,  and  universality  of  the 
ideas  which  it  took  for  its  law,  and  from  the  passion 
with  which  it  could  inspire  a  multitude  for  these  ideas, 
a  unique  and  still  living  power  ;  it  is,  —  it  will  prob- 
ably long  remain, —  the  greatest,  the  most  animating 
event  in  liistory.  And  as  no  sincere  passion  for  the 
things  of  the  mind,  even  though  it  turn  out  in  many 
respects  an  unfortunate  passion,  is  ever  quite  thrown 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  29 

away  and  quite  barren  of  good,  France  has  reaped 
from  hers  one  fruit  —  the  natui'al  and  legitimate  fruit 
though  not  precisely  the  grand  fruit  she  expected :  she 
is  the  country  in  Europe  where  tliejpeo'ple  is  most  alive. 
But  the  mania  for  giving  an  immediate  jjolitical 
and  practical  application  to  all  these  fine  ideas  of  the 
reason  was  fatal.  Here  an  Englishman  is  in  his  ele- 
ment :  on  this  theme  we  can  all  go  on  for  hours.  And 
all  we  are  in  the  habit  of  saying  on  it  has  undoubt- 
edly a  great  deal  of  truth.  Ideas  cannot  be  too  much 
prized  in  and  for  themselves,  cannot  be  too  much 
lived  with ;  but  to  transport  them  abruptly  into  the 
world  of  politics  and  practice,  violently  to  revolution- 
ize this  world  to  their  bidding,  —  that  is  quite  another 
thing.  There  is  the  world  of  ideas  and  there  is  the 
world  of  practice  ;  the  French  are  often  for  suppress- 
ing the  one  and  the  English  the  other  ;  but  neither  is 
to  be  suppressed.  A  member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons said  to  me  the  other  day  :  "  That  a  thing  is  an 
anomaly,  I  consider  to  be  no  objection  to  it  whatever." 
I  venture  to  think  he  was  wrong ;  that  a  thing  is  an 
anomaly  is  an  objection  to  it,  but  absolutely  and  in 
the  sphere  of  ideas :  it  is  not  necessarily,  under  such 
and  such  circumstances,  or  at  such  and  such  a  mo- 
ment, an  objection  to  it  in  the  sphere  of  politics  and 
practice.  Joubert  has  said  beautifully  :  "  C'est  la  force 
et  le  droit  qui  reglent  toutes  choses  dans  le  monde ; 
la  force  en  attendant  le  droit."  ^  (Force  and  right  are 
the  governors  of  this  world  ;  force  till  right  is  ready.) 
Force  till  right  is  ready;  and  till  right  is  ready, 
force,  the  existing  order  of  things,  is  justified,  is  the 
legitimate  ruler.  But  right  is  something  moral,  and 
implies  inward  recognition,  free  assent  of  the  will ;  we 
are  not  ready  for  right,  —  rights  so  far  as  we  are 
concerned,    is   not   ready ^  —  until  we  have  attained 


80  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

this  sense  of  seeing  it  and  willing  it.  The  way  in 
which  for  us  it  may  change  and  transform  force,  the 
existing  order  of  things,  and  become,  in  its  turn,  the 
legitimate  ruler  of  the  world,  should  depend  on  the  way 
in  which,  when  our  time  comes,  we  see  it  and  will  it. 
Therefore  for  other  people  enamored  of  their  own 
newly  discerned  right,  to  attempt  to  impose  it  upon 
us  as  ours,  and  violently  to  substitute  their  right  for 
our  force,  is  an  act  of  tyranny,  and  to  be  resisted.  It 
sets  at  naught  the  second  gi-eat  half  of  our  maxim, 
force  till  right  is  ready.  This  was  the  grand  error  of 
the  French  Revolution  ;  and  its  movement  of  ideas, 
by  quitting  the  intellectual  sphere  and  rushing  fu- 
riously into  the  jjolitical  sphere,  ran,  indeed,  a  prodi- 
gious and  memorable  course,  but  produced  no  such 
intellectual  fruit  as  the  movement  of  ideas  of  the 
Renascence,  and  created,  in  opposition  to  itself,  what 
I  may  call  an  epoch  of  concentration.  The  great  force 
of  that  epoch  of  concentration  was  England  :  and  the 
great  voice  of  that  epoch  of  concentration  was  Burke. 
It  is  the  fashion  to  treat  Burke's  writings  on  the 
French  Revolution  ^  as  superannuated  and  conquered 
by  the  event ;  as  the  eloquent  but  unphilosophical 
tirades  of  bigotry  and  prejudice.  I  will  not  deny 
that  they  are  often  disfigured  by  the  violence  and 
passion  of  the  moment,  and  that  in  some  directions 
Burke's  view  was  bounded,  and  his  observation  there- 
fore at  fault.  But  on  the  whole,  and  for  those  who 
can  make  the  needful  corrections,  what  distinguishes 
these  ^vl'itings  is  their  pi'ofound,  permanent,  fruitful, 
philosophical  truth.  They  contain  the  true  philosophy 
of  an  epoch  of  concentration,  dissipate  the  heavy 
atmosphere  which  its  own  nature  is  apt  to  engender 
round  it,  and  make  its  resistance  rational  instead  of 
mechanical. 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  31 

But  Burke  is  so  great  because,  almost  alone  in 
England,  lie  brings  thought  to  bear  upon  politics, 
he  saturates  politics  with  thought.  It  is  his  acci- 
dent that  his  ideas  were  at  the  service  of  an  epoch 
of  concentration,  not  of  an  epoch  of  expansion  ; 
it  is  his  characteristic  that  he  so  lived  by  ideas, 
and  had  such  a  source  of  them  welling  up  within 
him,  that  he  could  float  even  an  epoch  of  con- 
centration and  English  Tory  politics  with  them.  It 
does  not  hurt  him  that  Dr.  Price  ^  and  the  Liberals 
were  enraged  with  him ;  it  does  not  even  hurt  him 
that  George  the  Third  and  the  Tories  were  enchanted 
with  him.  His  greatness  is  that  he  lived  in  a  world 
which  neither  English  Liberalism  nor  English  Tory- 
ism is  apt  to  enter ;  —  the  world  of  ideas,  not  the 
world  of  catchwords  and  party  habits.  So  far  is  it 
from  being  really  true  of  him  that  he  "  to  party  gave 
up  what  was  meant  for  mankind,"  ^  that  at  the  very 
end  of  his  fierce  struggle  with  the  French  Revolution, 
after  all  his  invectives  against  its  false  pretensions, 
hollowness,  and  madness,  with  his  sincere  convictions 
of  its  mischievousness,  he  can  close  a  memorandum  on 
the  best  means  of  combating  it,  some  of  the  last  pages 
he  ever  wrote, — the  Thoughts  on  French  Affairs,  in 
December  1791,  —  with  these  striking  words:  — 

"  The  evil  is  stated,  in  my  opinion,  as  it  exists.  The 
remedy  must  be  where  power,  wisdom,  and  informa- 
tion, I  hope,  are  more  united  with  good  intentions  than 
they  can  be  with  me.  I  have  done  with  this  subject, 
I  believe,  forever.  It  has  given  me  many  anxious 
moments  for  the  last  two  years.  If  a  great  change  is 
to  he  made  in  human  affairs,  the  minds  of  men  loill  he 
fitted  to  it;  the  general  opinions  and  feelings  will 
draw  that  way.  Every  fear,  every  hope  will  forward 
it ;  and  then  they  who  persist  in  oj^j^osing  this  mighty 


32  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

current  in  human  affairs^  will  appear  rather  to  resist 
the  decrees  of  Providence  itself,  than  the  mere  designs 
of  men.  They  icill  not  be  resolute  and  Jlmi,  but  per- 
verse and  obstijiate.^' 

That  return  of  Burke  upon  himself  has  always 
seemed  to  me  one  of  the  finest  things  in  English  lit- 
erature, or  indeed  in  any  literature.  That  is  what 
I  call  living  by  ideas :  when  one  side  of  a  question  has 
long  had  your  earnest  support,  when  all  your  feelings 
are  engaged,  when  you  hear  all  round  you  no  lan- 
guage but  one,  when  your  party  talks  this  language 
like  a  steam-engine  and  can  imagine  no  other,  —  still 
to  be  able  to  think,  still  to  be  irresistibly  carried,  if  so 
it  be,  by  the  current  of  thought  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  question,  and,  like  Balaam,^  to  be  unable  to  speak 
anything  but  ichat  the  Lord  has  put  in  your  mouth. 
I  know  nothing  more  striking,  and  I  must  add  that  I 
know  nothing  more  un-English. 

For  the  Englishman  in  general  is  like  my  friend  the 
Member  of  Parliament,  and  believes,  point-blank,  that 
for  a  thing  to  be  an  anomaly  is  absolutely  no  objection 
to  it  whatever.  He  is  like  the  Lord  Auckland  ^  of 
Burke's  day,  who,  in  a  memorandum  on  the  French 
Revolution,  talks  of  "  certain  miscreants,  assuming  the 
name  of  philosophers,  who  have  presumed  themselves 
capable  of  establishing  a  new  system  of  society."  The 
Englishman  has  been  called  a  political  animal,  and  he 
values  what  is  political  and  practical  so  much  that  ideas 
easily  become  objects  of  dislike  in  his  eyes,  and  think- 
ers "  miscreants,"  because  ideas  and  thinkers  have 
rashly  meddled  with  politics  and  practice.  This  would 
be  all  very  well  if  the  dislike  and  neglect  confined 
themselves  to  ideas  transported  out  of  their  own  sphere, 
and  meddling  rashly  with  practice ;  but  they  are  in- 
evitably extended  to  ideas  as  such,  and  to  the  whole 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  33 

life  of  intelligence ;  practice  is  everything,  a  free  play 
of  the  mind  is  nothing.  The  notion  of  the  free  play  of 
the  mind  upon  all  subjects  being  a  pleasure  in  itself, 
being  an  object  of  desire,  being  an  essential  provider 
of  elements  without  which  a  nation's  spirit,  whatever 
compensations  it  may  have  for  them,  must,  in  the  long 
run,  die  of  inanition,  hardly  enters  into  an  English- 
man's thoughts.  It  is  noticeable  that  the  word  cui^i- 
osity,  which  in  other  languages  is  used  in  a  good  sense, 
to  mean,  as  a  high  and  fine  quality  of  man's  nature, 
just  this  disinterested  love  of  a  free  play  of  the  mind 
on  all  subjects,  for  its  own  sake,  — it  is  noticeable,  I 
say^  that  this  word  has  in  our  language  no  sense  of  the 
kind,  no  sense  but  a  rather  bad  and  disparaging  one. 
But  criticism,  real  criticism,  is  essentially  the  exercise 
of  this  very  quality.  It  obeys  an  instinct  prompting  it 
to  try  to  know  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in 
the  world,  irrespectively  of  practice,  politics,  and  every- 
thing of  the  kind  ;  and  to  value  knowledge  and  thought 
as  they  approach  this  best,  without  the  intrusion  of  any 
other  considerations  whatever.  This  is  an  instinct  for 
which  there  is,  I  think,  little  original  sympathy  in  the 
practical  English  nature,  and  what  there  was  of  it  has 
undergone  a  long  benumbing  period  of  blight  and  sup- 
pression in  the  epoch  of  concentration  which  followed 
the  French  Revolution. 

But  epochs  of  concentration  cannot  well  endure  for- 
ever ;  epochs  of  expansion,  in  the  due  course  of  things, 
follow  them.  Such  an  epoch  of  expansion  seems  to  be 
opening  in  this  country.  In  the  first  place  all  danger 
of  a  hostile  forcible  pressure  of  foreign  ideas  upon  our 
practice  has  long  disappeared ;  like  the  traveller  in  the 
fable,  therefore,  we  begin  to  wear  our  cloak  a  little 
more  loosely.  Then,  with  a  long  peace,  the  ideas  of 
Europe  steal  gradually  and  amicably  in,  and  mingle, 


84  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

though  in  infinitesimally  small  quantities  at  a  time, 
with  our  own  notions.  Then,  too,  in  sjsite  of  all  that 
is  said  about  the  absorbing  and  brutalizing  influence 
of  our  passionate  material  progress,  it  seems  to  me 
indisputable  that  this  progress  is  likely,  though  not 
certain,  to  lead  in  the  end  to  an  apparition  of  intel- 
lectual life  ;  and  that  man,  after  he  has  made  himself 
perfectly  comfortable  and  has  now  to  determine  what 
to  do  with  himself  next,  may  begin  to  remember  that 
he  has  a  mind,  and  that  the  mind  may  be  made  the 
source  of  great  pleasure.  I  grant  it  is  mainly  the  priv- 
ilege of  faith,  at  present,  to  discern  this  end  to  our 
railways,  our  business,  and  our  fortune-making ;  but 
we  shall  see  if,  here  as  elsewhere,  faith  is  not  in  the 
end  the  true  prophet.  Our  ease,  our  travelling,  and  our 
unbounded  liberty  to  hold  just  as  hard  and  securely 
as  we  please  to  the  practice  to  which  our  notions  have 
given  birth,  all  tend  to  beget  an  inclination  to  deal  a 
little  more  freely  with  these  notions  themselves,  to  can- 
vass them  a  little,  to  penetrate  a  little  into  their  real 
nature.  Flutterings  of  curiosity,  in  the  foreign  sense 
of  the  word,  appear  amongst  us,  and  it  is  in  these  that 
criticism  must  look  to  find  its  account.  Criticism  first ; 
a  time  of  true  creative  activity,  perhaps,  —  which,  as 
I  have  said,  must  inevitably  be  preceded  amongst  us 
by  a  time  of  criticism,  —  hereafter,  when  criticism 
has  done  its  work. 

It  is  of  the  last  importance  that  English  criticism 
should  clearly  discern  what  rule  for  its  course,  in  order 
to  avail  itself  of  the  field  now  opening  to  it,  and  to 
produce  fruit  for  the  future,  it  ought  to  take.  The 
rule  may  be  summed  up  in  one  word,  —  disinterested- 
ness. And  how  is  criticism  to  show  disinterestedness? 
By  keeping  aloof  from  what  is  called  "  the  practical 
view  of  things  "  ;  by  resolutely  following  the  law  of 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  35 

its  own  nature,  which  is  to  be  a  free  play  of  the  mind 
on  all  subjects  which  it  touches.  By  steadily  refusing 
to  lend  itself  to  any  of  those  ulterior,  political,  prac- 
tical considerations  about  ideas,  which  plenty  of  people 
will  be  sure  to  attach  to  them,  which  perhaps  ought 
often  to  be  attached  to  them,  which  in  this  country  at 
any  rate  are  certain  to  be  attached  to  them  quite  suf- 
ficiently, but  which  criticism  has  really  nothing  to  do 
with.  Its  business  is,  as  I  have  said,  simply  to  know 
the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world,  and 
by  in  its  turn  making  this  known,  to  create  a  current 
of  true  and  fresh  ideas.  Its  business  is  to  do  this  with 
inflexible  honesty,  with  due  ability  ;  but  its  business 
is  to  do  no  more,  and  to  leave  alone  all  questions  of 
practical  consequences  and  applications,  questions 
which  will  never  fail  to  have  due  prominence  given  to 
them.  Else  criticism,  besides  being  really  false  to  its 
own  nature,  merely  continues  in  the  old  rut  which  it 
has  hitherto  followed  in  this  country,  and  will  cer- 
tainly miss  the  chance  now  given  to  it.  For  what  is  at 
present  the  bane  of  criticism  in  this  country  ?  It  is 
that  practical  considerations  cling  to  it  and  stifle  it. 
It  subserves  interests  not  its  own.  Our  organs  of  criti- 
cism are  organs  of  men  and  parties  having  practical 
ends  to  serve,  and  with  them  those  practical  ends  are 
the  first  thing  and  the  play  of  mind  the  second ;  so 
much  play  of  mind  as  is  compatible  with  the  jDrosecu- 
tion  of  those  practical  ends  is  all  that  is  wanted.  An 
organ  like  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondesi  having  for 
its  main  function  to  understand  and  utter  the  best  that 
is  known  and  thought  in  the  world,  existing,  it  may  be 
said,  as  just  an  organ  for  a  free  play  of  the  mind,  we 
have  not.  But  we  have  the  Edinhurgh  Revieio,  exist- 
ing as  an  organ  of  the  old  Whigs,  and  for  as  much 
play  of  the  mind  as  may  suit  its  being  that ;  we  have 


36  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

the  Quarterly  Review^  existing  as  an  organ  of  the 
Tories,  and  for  as  much  play  of  mind  as  may  suit  its 
being  that ;  we  have  the  British  Quarterly  Hevieic, 
existing  as  an  organ  of  the  political  Dissenters,  and 
for  as  much  play  of  mind  as  may  suit  its  being  that ; 
we  have  the  Times^  existing  as  an  organ  of  the  com- 
mon, satisfied,  well-to-do  Englishman,  and  for  as  much 
play  of  mind  as  may  suit  its  being  that.  And  so  on 
through  all  the  various  fractions,  political  and  religious, 
of  our  society ;  every  fraction  has,  as  such,  its  organ 
of  criticism,  but  the  notion  of  combining  all  fractions 
in  the  common  pleasure  of  a  free  disinterested  play  of 
mind  meets  with  no  favor.  Directly  this  play  of  mind 
wants  to  have  more  scope,  and  to  forget  the  pressure 
of  practical  considerations  a  little,  it  is  checked,  it  is 
made  to  feel  the  chain.  We  saw  this  the  other  day  in 
the  extinction,  so  much  to  be  regretted,  of  the  Home 
and  Foreign  Heviev:}  Perhaps  in  no  organ  of  criti- 
cism in  this  country  was  there  so  much  knowledge,  so 
much  play  of  mind  ;  but  these  could  not  save  it.  The 
Duhlin  jRevicti'  subordinates  play  of  mind  to  the  prac- 
tical business  of  English  and  Irish  Catholicism,  and 
lives.  It  must  needs  be  that  men  should  act  in  sects 
and  parties,  that  each  of  these  sects  and  parties  should 
have  its  organ,  and  should  make  this  organ  subser^'e 
the  interests  of  its  action  :  but  it  woidd  be  well,  too, 
that  there  should  be  a  criticism,  not  the  minister  of 
these  interests,  not  their  enemy,  but  absolutely  and 
entirely  independent  of  them.  No  other  criticism  will 
ever  attain  any  real  authority  or  make  any  real  way 
towards  its  end,  —  the  creating  a  current  of  true  and 
fresh  ideas. 

It  is  because  criticism  has  so  little  kept  in  the  pure 
intellectual  sphere,  has  so  little  detached  itself  from 
practice,  has  been  so  directly  polemical  and  contro- 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  37 

versial,that  it  has  so  ill  accomplished,  in  this  country, 
its  best  spiritual  work ;  which  is  to  keep  man  from  a 
self-satisfaction  which  is  retarding  and  vulgarizing-, 
to  lead  him  towards  perfection,  by  making  his  mind 
dwell  uj)on  what  is  excellent  in  itself,  and  the  abso- 
lute beauty  and  fitness  of  things.  A  polemical  practi- 
cal criticism  makes  men  blind  even  to  the  ideal  imper- 
fection of  their  practice,  makes  them  willingly  assert 
its  ideal  perfection,  in  order  the  better  to  secure  it 
against  attack :  and  clearly  this  is  narrowing  and 
baneful  for  them.  If  they  were  reassured  on  the 
practical  side,  speculative  considerations  of  ideal  per- 
fection they  might  be  brought  to  entertain,  and  their 
spiritual  horizon  would  thus  gradually  widen.  Sir 
Charles  Adderley^  says  to  the  Warwickshire  farm- 
ers :  — 

"  Talk  of  the  improvement  of  breed !  Why,  the 
race  we  ourselves  represent,  the  men  and  women,  the 
old  Anglo-Saxon  race,  are  the  best  breed  in  the  whole 
world.  .  .  .  The  absence  of  a  too  enervating  climate, 
too  unclouded  skies,  and  a  too  luxurious  nature,  has 
produced  so  vigorous  a  race  of  people,  and  has  rendered 
us  so  superior  to  all  the  world." 

Mr.  Roebuck 2  says  to  the  Sheffield  cutlers:  — 

"I  look  around  me  and  ask  what  is  the  state  of 
England?  Is  not  property  safe?  Is  not  every  man 
able  to  say  what  he  likes  ?  Can  you  not  walk  from  one 
end  of  England  to  the  other  in  perfect  security?  I  ask 
you  whether,  the  world  over  or  in  past  history,  there 
is  anything  like  it  ?  Nothing.  I  pray  that  our  unri- 
valled happiness  may  last." 

Now  obviously  there  is  a  peril  for  poor  human 
nature  in  words  and  thoughts  of  such  exuberant  self- 
satisfaction,  until  we  find  ourselves  safe  in  the  streets 
of  the  Celestial  City. 


38  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  Das  wenige  verschwindet  leicht  dem  Blicke 
Der  vorwarts  sieht,  wie  viel  noch  iibrig  bleibt  —  "^ 

says  Goethe ;  "  the  little  that  is  clone  seems  nothing 
when  we  look  forward  and  see  how  much  we  have  yet 
to  do."  Clearly  this  is  a  better  line  of  reflection  for 
weak  humanity,  so  long  as  it  remains  on  this  earthly 
field  of  labor  and  trial. 

But  neither  Sir  Charles  Adderley  nor  Mr.  Roebuck 
is  by  nature  inaccessible  to  considerations  of  this  sort. 
They  only  lose  sight  of  them  owing  to  the  controver- 
sial life  we  all  lead,  and  the  practical  form  which  all 
speculation  takes  with  us.  They  have  in  view  oppo- 
nents whose  aim  is  not  ideal,  but  practical ;  and  in 
their  zeal  to  uphold  their  own  practice  against  these 
innovators,  they  go  so  far  as  even  to  attribute  to  this 
practice  an  ideal  perfection.  Somebody  has  been  want- 
ing to  introduce  a  six-pound  franchise,  or  to  abolish 
church-rates,  or  to  collect  agricultural  statistics  by 
force,  or  to  diminish  local  self-government.  How  nat- 
ural, in  reply  to  such  proposals,  very  likely  improper 
or  ill-timed,  to  go  a  little  beyond  the  mark  and  to  say 
stoutly,  "  Such  a  race  of  people  as  we  stand,  so  supe- 
rior to  all  the  world !  The  old  Anglo-Saxon  race,  the 
best  breed  in  the  whole  world !  I  pray  that  our  unri- 
valled happiness  may  last!  I  ask  you  whether,  the 
world  over  or  in  past  history,  there  is  anything  like 
it  ?  "  And  so  long  as  criticism  answers  this  dithyramb 
by  insisting  that  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  race  would  be 
still  more  superior  to  all  others  if  it  had  no  church- 
rates,  or  that  our  unrivalled  happiness  would  last  yet 
longer  with  a  six-pound  franchise,  so  long  will  the 
strain,  "  The  best  breed  in  the  whole  world  !  "  swell 
louder  and  louder,  everything  ideal  and  refining  will 
be  lost  out  of  sight,  and  both  the  assailed  and  their 
critics  will  remain  in  a  sphere,  to  say  the  truth,  per- 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  39 

fectly  unvital,  a  sphere  in  which  spiritual  progression 
is  impossible.  But  let  criticism  leave  church-rates  and 
the  franchise  alone,  and  in  the  most  candid  spirit, 
without  a  single  lurking  thought  of  practical  innova- 
tion, confront  with  our  dithyramb  this  paragraph  on 
which  I  stumbled  in  a  newspaper  immediately  after 
reading  Mr.  Roebuck  :  — 

"  A  shocking  child  murder  has  just  been  committed 
at  Nottingham.  A  girl  named  Wragg  left  the  work- 
house there  on  Saturday  morning  with  her  young  ille- 
gitimate child.  The  child  was  soon  afterwards  found 
dead  on  Mapperly  Hills,  having  been  strangled. 
Wragg  is  in  custody." 

Nothing  but  that;  but,  in  juxtaposition  with  the 
absolute  eulogies  of  Sir  Charles  Adderley  and  Mr. 
Roebuck,  how  eloquent,  how  suggestive  are  those  few 
lines!  "Our  old  Anglo-Saxon  breed,  the  best  in  the 
whole  world!"  —  how  much  that  is  harsh  and  ill- 
favored  there  is  in  this  best !  Wragg  !  If  we  are  to 
talk  of  ideal  perfection,  of  "  the  best  in  the  whole 
world,"  has  any  one  reflected  what  a  touch  of  grossness 
in  our  race,  what  an  original  short-coming  in  the  more 
delicate  spiritual  perceptions,  is  shown  by  the  natural 
growth  amongst  us  of  such  hideous  names,  —  Higgin- 
bottom,  Stiggins,  Bugg !  In  Ionia  and  Attica  they 
were  luckier  in  this  respect  than  "  the  best  race  in 
the  world"  ;  by  the  Ilissus  there  was  no  Wragg,  poor 
thing!  And  "our  unrivalled  happiness";  —  what  an 
element  of  grimness,  bareness,  and  hideousness  mixes 
with  it  and  blurs  it ;  the  workhouse,  the  dismal  Map- 
perly Hills,  —  how  dismal  those  who  have  seen  them 
will  remember  ;  —  the  gloom,  the  smoke,  the  cold,  the 
strangled  illegitimate  child  !  "  I  ask  you  whether,  the 
world  over  or  in  past  history,  there  is  anything  like 
it  ? "    Perhaps  not,  one  is  inclined  to  answer ;    but 


40  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

at  any  rate,  in  that  case,  tlie  world  is  very  mucli  to 
be  pitied.  And  the  final  touch,  —  short,  bleak  and 
inhuman :  Wragg  is  in  custochj.  The  sex  lost  in  the 
confusion  of  our  unrivalled  happiness  ;  or  (shall  I  say?) 
the  superfluous  Christian  name  lopped  off  by  the 
straightforward  vigor  of  our  old  Anglo-Saxon  breed  ! 
There  is  profit  for  the  spirit  in  such  contrasts  as  this  ; 
criticism  serves  the  cause  of  perfection  by  establishing 
them.  By  eluding  sterile  conflict,  by  refusing  to 
remain  in  the  sphere  where  alone  narrow  and  relative 
conceptions  have  any  worth  and  validity,  criticism 
may  diminish  its  momentary  importance,  but  only  in 
this  way  has  it  a  chance  of  gaining  admittance  for 
those  wider  and  more  perfect  conceptions  to  which  all 
its  duty  is  really  owed.  Mr.  Roebuck  will  have  a  poor 
opinion  of  an  adversary  who  replies  to  his  defiant 
songs  of  triumph  only  by  murmuring  under  his  breath, 
Wragg  is  in  custody  ;  but  in  no  other  way  will  these 
songs  of  triumph  be  induced  gradually  to  moderate 
themselves,  to  get  rid  of  what  in  them  is  excessive 
and  offensive,  and  to  fall  into  a  softer  and  truer  key. 
It  will  be  said  that  it  is  a  very  subtle  and  indirect 
action  which  I  am  thus  prescribing  for  criticism,  and 
that,  by  embracing  in  this  manner  the  Indian  virtue 
of  detachment  ^  and  abandoning  the  sphere  of  practi- 
cal life,  it  condemns  itself  to  a  slow  and  obscure  work. 
Slow  and  obscure  it  may  be,  but  it  is  the  only  proper 
work  of  criticism.  The  mass  of  mankind  will  never 
have  any  ardent  zeal  for  seeing  things  as  they  are ; 
very  inadequate  ideas  will  always  satisfy  them.  On 
these  inadequate  ideas  reposes,  and  must  repose,  the 
general  practice  of  the  world.  That  is  as  much  as  say- 
ing  that  whoever  sets  himself  to  see  things  as  they  are 
will  find  himself  one  of  a  very  small  circle;  but  it  is 
only  by  this  small  circle  resolutely  doing  its  own  work 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  41 

that  adequate  ideas  will  ever  get  current  at  all.  The 
rush  and  roar  of  practical  life  will  always  have  a  diz- 
zying and  attracting  effect  upon  the  most  collected 
spectator,  and  tend  to  draw  him  into  its  vortex  ;  most 
of  all  will  this  be  the  case  where  that  life  is  so  power- 
ful as  it  is  in  England.  But  it  is  only  by  remaining 
collected,  and  refusing  to  lend  himself  to  the  point  of 
view  of  the  practical  man,  that  the  critic  can  do  the 
practical  man  any  service ;  and  it  is  only  by  the 
greatest  sincerity  in  pursuing  his  own  course,  and  by 
at  last  convincing  even  the  practical  man  of  his  sin- 
cerity, that  he  can  escape  misunderstandings  which 
perpetually  threaten  him. 

For  the  practical  man  is  not  apt  for  fine  distinctions, 
and  yet  in  these  distinctions  truth  and  the  highest 
culture  greatly  find  their  account.  But  it  is  not  easy 
to  lead  a  practical  man,  —  unless  you  reassure  him  as 
to  your  practical  intentions,  you  have  no  chance  of 
leading  him,  —  to  see  that  a  thing  which  he  has 
always  been  used  to  look  at  from  one  side  only,  which 
he  greatly  values,  and  which,  looked  at  from  that  side, 
quite  deserves,  perhaps,  all  the  prizing  and  admiring 
which  he  bestows  upon  it,  —  that  this  thing,  looked  at 
from  another  side,  may  appear  much  less  beneficent  and 
beautiful,  and  yet  retain  all  its  claims  to  our  practical 
allegiance.  Where  shall  we  find  language  innocent 
enough,  how  shall  we  make  the  spotless  purity  of  our 
intentions  evident  enough,  to  enable  us  to  say  to 
the  political  Englishmen  that  the  British  Constitution 
itself,  which,  seen  from  the  practical  side,  looks  such 
a  magnificent  organ  of  progress  and  virtue,  seen  from 
the  speculative  side,  —  with  its  compromises,  its  love 
of  facts,  its  horror  of  theory,  its  studied  avoidance  of 
clear  thoughts,  —  that,  seen  from  this  side,  our  august 
Constitution  sometimes  looks,  —  forgive  me,  shade  of 


42  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Lord  Somers !  ^  —  a  colossal  machine  for  the  manufac- 
ture of  Philistines  ?  How  is  Cobbett  ^  to  say  this  and 
not  be  misunderstood,  blackened  as  he  is  with  the 
smoke  of  a  lifelong  conflict  in  the  field  of  political 
practice?  how  is  Mr.  Carlyle  to  say  it  and  not  be 
misunderstood,  after  his  furious  raid  into  this  field 
with  his  Latter-day  Pam^Metsf^  how  is  Mr.  Rus- 
kin,*  after  his  pugnacious  political  economy?  I  say, 
the  critic  must  keep  out  of  the  region  of  immediate 
practice  in  the  political,  social,  humanitarian  sphere, 
if  he  wants  to  make  a  beginning  for  that  more  free 
speculative  treatment  of  things,  which  may  perhaps 
one  day  make  its  benefits  felt  even  in  this  sphere,  but 
in  a  natural  and  thence  irresistible  manner. 

Do  what  he  will,  however,  the  critic  will  still  remain 
exposed  to  frequent  misunderstandings,  and  nowhere 
so  much  as  in  this  country.  For  here  people  are 
particularly  indisposed  even  to  comprehend  that  with- 
out this  free  disinterested  treatment  of  things,  truth 
and  the  highest  culture  are  out  of  the  question.  So 
immersed  are  they  in  practical  life,  so  accustomed 
to  take  all  their  notions  from  this  life  and  its  processes, 
that  they  are  apt  to  think  that  ti'uth  and  culture 
themselves  can  be  reached  by  the  processes  of  this 
life,  and  that  it  is  an  impertinent  singularity  to  think 
of  reaching  them  in  any  other.  "  We  are  all  terrcejird"  ^ 
cries  their  eloquent  advocate ;  "  all  Philistines  '^  together. 
Away  with  the  notion  of  proceeding  by  any  other 
course  than  the  course  dear  to  the  Philistines ;  let  us 
have  a  social  movement,  let  us  organize  and  combine 
a  party  to  pursue  truth  and  new  thought,  let  us  call 
it  the  liberal  parti/,  and  let  us  all  stick  to  each  other, 
and  back  each  other  up.  Let  us  have  no  nonsense 
about  independent  criticism,  and  intellectual  delicacy, 
and   the  few  and  the   many.    Don't  let  us  trouble 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  43 

ourselves  about  foreign  thought ;  we  shall  invent  the 
whole  thing  for  ourselves  as  we  go  along.  If  one 
of  us  speaks  well,  applaud  him  ;  if  one  of  us  speaks 
ill,  applaud  him  too ;  we  are  all  in  the  same  move- 
ment, we  are  all  liberals,  we  are  all  in  pursuit  of 
truth."  In  this  way  the  pursuit  of  truth  becomes  really 
a  social,  practical,  pleasurable  affair,  almost  requiring 
a  chairman,  a  secretary,  and  advertisements ;  with  the 
excitement  of  an  occasional  scandal,  with  a  little  resist- 
ance to  give  the  happy  sense  of  difficulty  overcome ; 
but,  in  general,  plenty  of  bustle  and  very  little  thought. 
To  act  is  so  easy,  as  Goethe  says  ;  to  think  is  so  hard !  ^ 
It  is  true  that  the  critic  has  many  temptations  to  go 
with  the  stream,  to  make  one  of  the  party  movement, 
one  of  these  terrm  filii ;  it  seems  ungracious  to  refuse 
to  be  a  terrm  fiUus,  when  so  many  excellent  people 
are ;  but  the  critic's  duty  is  to  refuse,  or,  if  resistance 
is  vain,  at  least  to  cry  with  Obermann:  Perissons  en 
resistant? 

How  serious  a  matter  it  is  to  try  and  resist,  I  had 
ample  opportunity  of  experiencing  when  I  ventured 
some  time  ago  to  criticize  the  celebrated  first  volume 
of  Bishop  Colenso.^  The  echoes  of  the  storm  which  was 
then  raised  I  still,  fi'om  time  to  time,  hear  grumbling 
round  me.  That  storm  arose  out  of  a  misunderstand- 
ing almost  inevitable.  It  is  a  result  of  no  little  culture 
to  attain  to  a  clear  perception  that  science  and  reli- 
gion are  two  wholly  different  things.  The  multitude 
will  forever  confuse  them  ;  but  happily  that  is  of  no 
great  real  importance,  for  while  the  multitude  imag- 
ines itself  to  live  by  its  false  science,  it  does  really 
live  by  its  true  religion.  Dr.  Colenso,  however,  in  his 
first  volume  did  all  he  could  to  strengthen  the  confu- 
sion,^ and  to  make  it  dangerous.  He  did  this  with  the 
best  intentions,  I  freely  admit,  and  with  the  most  can- 


44  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

did  ignorance  that  this  was  the  natural  effect  of  what 
he  was  doing ;  but,  says  Joubert,  "  Ignorance,  which 
in  matters  of  morals  extenuates  the  crime,  is  itself,  in 
intellectual  matters,  a  crime  of  the  first  order."  i  I  crit- 
icized Bishop  Colenso's  speculative  confusion.  Imme- 
diately there  was  a  cry  raised  :  "  What  is  this  ?  here 
is  a  liberal  attacking  a  liberal.  Do  not  you  belong  to 
the  movement  ?  are  not  you  a  friend  of  truth  ?  Is  not 
Bishop  Colenso  in  pursuit  of  truth?  then  speak  with 
proper  respect  of  his  book.  Dr.  Stanley  ^  is  another 
friend  of  truth,  and  you  speak  with  proper  respect 
of  his  book ;  why  make  these  invidious  differences  ? 
both  books  are  excellent,  admirable,  liberal ;  Bishop 
Colenso's  perhaps  the  most  so,  because  it  is  the  bold- 
est, and  will  have  the  best  practical  consequences  for 
the  liberal  cause.  Do  you  want  to  encourage  to  the 
attack  of  a  brother  liberal  his,  and  your,  and  our 
implacable  enemies,  the  Church  and  State  Revieio 
or  the  Record^  —  the  High  Church  rhinoceros  and  the 
Evangelical  hyena?  Be  silent,  therefore;  or  rather 
speak,  speak  as  loud  as  ever  you  can !  and  go  into 
ecstasies  over  the  eighty  and  odd  pigeons." 

But  criticism  cannot  follow  this  coarse  and  indis- 
criminate method.  It  is  unfortunately  possible  for  a 
man  in  pursuit  of  truth  to  write  a  book  which  reposes 
upon  a  false  conception.  Even  the  practical  conse- 
quences of  a  book  are  to  genuine  criticism  no  recom- 
mendation of  it,  if  the  book  is,  in  the  highest  sense, 
blundering.  I  see  that  a  lady  ^  who  herself,  too,  is  in 
pursuit  of  truth,  and  who  writes  with  great  ability, 
but  a  little  too  much,  perhaps,  under  the  influence  of 
the  practical  spirit  of  the  English  liberal  movement, 
classes  Bishop  Colenso's  book  and  M.  Kenan's^  to- 
gether, in  her  survey  of  the  religious  state  of  Europe, 
as  facts  of  the  same  order,  works,  both  of  them,  of 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  45 

*'  great  importance" ;  "  great  ability,  power,  and  skill " ; 
Bishop  Colenso's,  perhaps,  the  most  powerful ;  at  least, 
Miss  Cobbe  gives  special  expression  to  her  gratitude 
that  to  Bishop  Colenso  "  has  been  given  the  strength 
to  grasp,  and  the  courage  to  teach,  truths  of  such  deep 
import."  In  the  same  way,  more  than  one  popular 
writer  has  compared  him  to  Luther.  Now  it  is  just 
this  kind  of  false  estimate  which  the  critical  spirit  is, 
it  seems  to  me,  bound  to  resist.  It  is  really  the  strong- 
est possible  proof  of  the  low  ebb  at  which,  in  England, 
the  critical  spirit  is,  that  while  the  critical  hit  in  the 
religious  literature  of  Germany  is  Dr.  Strauss's  ^  book, 
in  that  of  France  M.  Renan's  book,  the  book  of  Bishop 
Colenso  is  the  critical  hit  in  the  religious  literature  of 
England.  Bishop  Colenso's  book  reposes  on  a  total 
misconception  of  the  essential  elements  of  the  religious 
problem,  as  that  problem  is  now  presented  for  solu- 
tion. To  criticism,  therefore,  which  seeks  to  have  the 
best  that  is  known  and  thought  on  this  problem,  it 
is,  however  well  meant,  of  no  importance  whatever. 
M.  Renan's  book  attempts  a  new  synthesis  of  the  ele- 
ments furnished  to  us  by  the  Four  Gospels.  It  attempts, 
in  my  opinion,  a  synthesis,  perhaps  premature,  perhaps 
impossible,  certainly  not  successful.  Up  to  the  present 
time,  at  any  rate,  we  must  acquiesce  in  Fleury's  sen- 
tence on  such  recastings  of  the  Gospel  story:  Qui- 
conque  s' imagine  la  pouvoir  mieux  ecrire,  ne  Ventend 
pas?  M.  Renan  had  himself  passed  by  anticipation  a 
like  sentence  on  his  own  work,  when  he  said :  "If  a 
new  presentation  of  the  character  of  Jesus  were  offered 
to  me,  I  would  not  have  it ;  its  very  clearness  would 
be,  in  my  opinion,  the  best  proof  of  its  insufficiency." 
His  friends  may  with  perfect  justice  rejoin  that  at  the 
sight  of  the  Holy  Land,  and  of  the  actual  scene  of  the 
Gospel  story,  all  the  current  of  M.  Renan's  thoughts 


46  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

may  have  naturally  changed,  and  a  new  casting  of 
that  story  irresistibly  suggested  itself  to  him ;  and 
that  this  is  just  a  case  for  applying  Cicero's  maxim : 
Change  of  mind  is  not  inconsistency  —  nemo  doctus 
unquani  mutationem  consilli  inconstantiam  dixit  esse} 
Nevertheless,  for  criticism,  M.  Renan's  first  thought 
must  still  be  the  truer  one,  as  long  as  his  new  casting 
so  fails  more  fully  to  commend  itself,  more  fully  (to 
use  Coleridge's  happy  phrase  ^  about  the  Bible)  tojind 
us.  Still  M.  Renan's  attempt  is,  for  criticism,  of  the 
most  real  interest  and  importance,  since,  with  all  its 
difficulty,  a  fresh  synthesis  of  the  New  Testament 
data  —  not  a  making  war  on  them,  in  Voltaire's  fash- 
ion, not  a  leaving  them  out  of  mind,  in  the  world's 
fashion,  but  the  putting  a  new  construction  upon  them, 
the  taking  them  from  under  the  old,  traditional,  con- 
ventional point  of  view  and  placing  them  under  a  new 
one  —  is  the  very  essence  of  the  religious  problem, 
as  now  presented  ;  and  only  by  efforts  in  this  direction 
can  it  receive  a  solution. 

Again,  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  she  judges  Bishop 
Colenso,  Miss  Cobbe,  like  so  many  earnest  liberals  of 
our  practical  race,  both  here  and  in  America,  herself 
sets  vigorously  about  a  positive  reconstruction  of  re- 
ligion, about  making  a  religion  of  the  future  out  of 
hand,  or  at  least  setting  about  making  it.  We  must 
not  rest,  she  and  they  are  always  thinking  and  saying, 
in  negative  criticism,  we  must  be  creative  and  con- 
structive; hence  we  have  such  works  as  her  recent 
Heligious  Duty^  and  works  still  more  considerable, 
perhaps,  by  others,  which  will  be  in  every  one's  mind. 
These  works  often  have  much  ability  ;  they  often 
spring  out  of  sincere  convictions,  and  a  sincere  wish 
to  do  good ;  and  they  sometimes,  perhaps,  do  good. 
Their  fault  is  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so)  onQ 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  47 

which  they  have  in  common  with  the  British  College 
of  Health,  in  the  New  Road.  Every  one  knows  the 
British  College  of  Health  ;  it  is  that  building  with  the 
lion  and  the  statue  of  the  Goddess  Hygeia  before  it ; 
at  least  I  am  sure  about  the  lion,  though  I  am  not 
absolutely  certain  about  the  Goddess  Hygeia.  This 
building  does  credit,  perhaps,  to  the  resources  of  Dr. 
Morrison  and  his  disciples ;  but  it  falls  a  good  deal 
short  of  one's  idea  of  what  a  British  College  of  Health 
ought  to  be.  In  England,  where  we  hate  public  inter- 
ference and  love  individual  enterprise,  we  have  a  whole 
crop  of  places  like  the  British  College  of  Health ;  the 
grand  name  without  the  grand  thing.  Unluckily, 
creditable  to  individual  enterprise  as  they  are,  they 
tend  to  impair  our  taste  by  making  us  forget  what 
more  grandiose,  noble,  or  beautiful  character  properly 
belongs  to  a  public  institution.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  the  religions  of  the  future  of  Miss  Cobbe  and 
others.  Creditable,  like  the  British  College  of  Health, 
to  the  resources  of  their  authors,  they  yet  tend 
to  make  us  forget  what  more  grandiose,  noble,  or 
beautiful  character  properly  belongs  to  religious  con- 
structions. The  historic  religions,  with  all  their  faults, 
have  had  this  ;  it  certainly  belongs  to  the  religious 
sentiment,  when  it  truly  flowers,  to  have  this ;  and  we 
impoverish  our  spirit  if  we  allow  a  religion  of  the 
future  without  it.  What  then  is  the  duty  of  criticism 
here?  To  take  the  practical  point  of  view,  to  applaud 
the  liberal  movement  and  all  its-  works,  —  its  New 
Road  religions  of  the  future  into  the  bargain,  —  for 
their  general  utility's  sake  ?  By  no  means ;  but  to  be 
perpetually  dissatisfied  with  these  works,  while  they 
perpetually  fall  short  of  a  high  and  perfect  ideal. 

For  criticism,  these  are  elementary  laws  ;  but  they 
never  can  be  popular,  and  in  this  country  they  have 


48  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

been  very  little  followed,  and  one  meets  with  immense 
obstacles  in  following  them.  That  is  a  reason  foi' 
asserting  them  again  and  again.  Criticism  must 
maintain  its  independence  of  the  practical  spirit  and 
its  aims.  Even  with  well-meant  efforts  of  the  practical 
spirit  it  must  express  dissatisfaction,  if  in  the  sphere 
of  the  ideal  they  seem  imjDoverishing  and  limiting.  It 
must  not  hurry  on  to  the  goal  because  of  its  practical 
importance.  It  must  be  patient,  and  know  how  to 
wait ;  and  flexible,  and  know  how  to  attach  itself  to 
things  and  how  to  withdraw  from  them.  It  must  be 
apt  to  study  and  praise  elements  that  for  the  fidness 
of  spiritual  perfection  are  wanted,  even  though  they 
belong  to  a  power  which  in  the  practical  sphere  may 
be  maleficent.  It  must  be  apt  to  discern  the  spiritual 
shortcomings  or  illusions  of  jjowers  that  in  the  prac- 
tical sphere  may  be  beneficent.  And  this  without  any 
notion  of  favoring  or  injuring,  in  the  practical  sphere, 
one  power  or  the  other ;  without  any  notion  of  play- 
ing off,  in  this  sphere,  one  power  against  the  other. 
When  one  looks,  for  instance,  at  the  English  Divorce 
Court  —  an  institution  which  perhaps  has  its  practical 
conveniences,  but  which  in  the  ideal  sphere  is  so  hid- 
eous ;  an  institution  which  neither  makes  divorce  im- 
possible nor  makes  it  decent,  which  allows  a  man  to 
get  rid  of  his  wife,  or  a  wife  of  her  husband,  but 
makes  them  drag  one  another  first,  for  the  public  edi- 
fication, through  a  mire  of  unutterable  infamy, — 
when  one  looks  at  this  charming  institution,  I  say, 
with  its  crowded  trials,  its  newspaper  reports,  and  its 
money  compensations,  this  institution  in  which  the 
gross  unregenerate  British  Philistine  has  indeed 
stamped  an  image  of  himself,  —  one  may  be  permitted 
to  find  the  marriage  theory  of  Catholicism  refreshing 
and  elevating.  Or  v/hen  Protestantism,  in  virtue  of  its 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  49 

supposed  rational  and  intellectual  oi'igin,  gives  the  law 
to  criticism  too  magisterially,  criticism  may  and  must 
remind  it  that  its  pretensions,  in  this  respect,  are  illu- 
sive and  do  it  harm ;  that  the  Reformation  was  a 
moral  rather  than  an  intellectual  event ;  that  Luther's 
theory  of  grace  ^  no  more  exactly  reflects  the  mind  of 
the  spirit  than  Bossuet's  philosophy  of  history  2  reflects 
it;  and  that  there  is  no  more  antecedent  probability 
of  the  Bishop  of  Durham's  stock  of  ideas  being  agree- 
able to  perfect  reason  than  of  Pope  Pius  the  Ninth's. 
But  criticism  will  not  on  that  account  forget  the 
achievements  of  Protestantism  in  the  practical  and 
moral  sphere  ;  nor  that,  even  in  the  intellectual  sphere, 
Protestantism,  though  in  a  blind  and  stumbling  man- 
ner, carried  forward  the  Renascence,  while  Catholi- 
cism threw  itself  violently  across  its  path. 

I  lately  heard  a  man  of  thought  and  energy  con- 
trasting the  want  of  ardor  and  movement  which  he  now 
found  amongst  young  men  in  this  country  with  what 
he  remembered  in  his  own  youth,  twenty  years  ago. 
"What  reformers  we  were  then!"  he  exclaimed; 
"  What  a  zeal  we  had !  how  we  canvassed  every  in- 
stitution in  Church  and  State,  and  were  prepared  to 
remodel  them  all  on  first  princijiles  !  "  He  was  inclined 
to  regret,  as  a  spiritual  flagging,  the  lull  which  he 
saw.  I  am  disposed  rather  to  regard  it  as  a  pause  in 
which  the  turn  to  a  new  mode  of  spiritual  progress 
is  being  accomplished.  Everything  was  long  seen,  by 
the  young  and  ardent  amongst  us,  in  inseparable  con- 
nection with  politics  and  practical  life.  We  have  pretty 
well  exhausted  the  benefits  of  seeing  things  in  this 
connection,  we  have  got  all  that  can  be  got  by  so  see- 
ing them.  Let  us  try  a  more  disinterested  mode  of 
seeing  them ;  let  us  betake  ourselves  more  to  the  serener 
life  of  the  mind  and  spirit.  This  life,  too,  may  have 


50  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

its  excesses  and  dangers  ;  but  they  are  not  for  us  at 
present.  Let  us  think  of  quietly  enlarging  our  stock 
of  true  and  fresh  ideas,  and  not,  as  soon  as  we  get  an 
idea  or  half  an  idea,  be  running  out  with  it  into  the 
street,  and  trying  to  make  it  rule  there.  Our  ideas  will, 
in  the  end,  shape  the  world  all  the  better  for  maturing 
a  little.  Perhaps  in  fifty  years'  time  it  will  in  the  Eng- 
lish House  of  Commons  be  an  objection  to  an  institu- 
tion that  it  is  an  anomaly,  and  my  friend  the  Member 
of  Parliament  will  shudder  in  his  grave.  But  let  us  in 
the  meanwhile  rather  endeavor  that  in  twenty  years' 
time  it  may,  in  English  literature,  be  an  objection  to  a 
proposition  that  it  is  absurd.  That  will  be  a  change 
so  vast,  that  the  imagination  almost  fails  to  grasp  it. 
Ab  integro  sceclorum  nascitur  orclo} 

If  I  have  insisted  so  much  on  the  course  which  criti- 
cism must  take  where  politics  and  religion  are  concerned, 
it  is  because,  where  these  burning  matters  are  in  ques- 
tion, it  is  most  likely  to  go  astray.  I  have  wished,  above 
all,  to  insist  on  the  attitude  which  criticism  should 
adopt  towards  things  in  general ;  on  its  right  tone  and 
temper  of  mind.  But  then  comes  another  question  as 
to  the  subject-matter  which  literary  criticism  should 
most  seek.  Here,  in  general,  its  course  is  determined 
for  it  by  the  idea  which  is  the  law  of  its  being  :  the 
idea  of  a  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn  and  propagate 
the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world,  and 
thus  to  establish  a  current  of  fresh  and  true  ideas.  By 
the  very  nature  of  things,  as  England  is  not  all  the 
world,  much  of  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in 
the  world  cannot  be  of  English  growth,  must  be  for- 
eign ;  by  the  nature  of  things,  again,  it  is  just  this  that 
we  are  least  likely  to  know,  while  English  thought  is 
streaming  in  upon  us  from  all  sides,  and  takes  excellent 
care  that  we  shall  not  be  ignorant  of  its  existence.  The 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  51 

English  critic  of  literature,  therefore,  must  dwell  much 
on  foreign  thought,  and  with  particular  heed  on  any 
part  of  it,  which,  while  significant  and  fruitful  in  itself, 
is  for  any  reason  specially  likely  to  escape  him.  Again, 
judging  is  often  spoken  of  as  the  critic's  one  business, 
and  so  in  some  sense  it  is  ;  but  the  judgment  which 
almost  insensibly  forms  itself  in  a  fair  and  clear  mind, 
along  with  fresh  knowledge,  is  the  valuable  one  ;  and 
thus  knowledge,  and  ever  fresh  knowledge,  must  be 
the  critic's  great  concern  for  himself.  And  it  is  by 
communicating  fresh  knowledge,  and  letting  his  own 
judgment  pass  along  with  it,  —  but  insensibly,  and  in 
the  second  place,  not  the  first,  as  a  sort  of  companion 
and  clue,  not  ias  an  abstract  lawgiver,  —  that  the  critic 
will  generally  do  most  good  to  his  readers.  Sometimes, 
no  doubt,  for  the  sake  of  establishing  an  author's  place 
in  literature,  and  his  relation  to  a  central  standard  (and 
if  this  is  not  done,  how  are  we  to  get  at  our  hest  in  the 
world  f^  criticism  may  have  to  deal  with  a  subject- 
matter  so  familiar  that  fresh  knowledge  is  out  of  the 
question,  and  then  it  must  be  all  judgment ;  an  enuncia- 
tion and  detailed  application  of  principles.  Here  the 
great  safeguard  is  never  to  let  oneself  become  abstract, 
always  to  retain  an  intimate  and  lively  consciousness 
of  the  truth  of  what  one  is  saying,  and,  the  moment 
this  fails  us,  to  be  sure  that  something  is  wrong.  Still 
under  all  circumstances,  this  mere  judgment  and 
application  of  principles  is,  in  itself,  not  the  most 
satisfactory  work  to  the  critic ;  like  mathematics, 
it  is  tautological,  and  cannot  well  give  us,  like  fresh 
learning,  the  sense  of  creative  activity. 

But  stop,  some  one  will  say  ;  all  this  talk  is  of  no  prac- 
tical use  to  us  whatever  ;  this  criticism  of  yours  is  not 
what  we  have  in  our  minds  when  we  speak  of  criticism  ; 
when  we  speak  of  critics  and  criticism,  we  mean  critics 


52  ]\L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

and  criticism  of  the  current  English  literature  of  the 
day,  when  you  offer  to  tell  criticism  its  function,  it  is 
to  this  criticism  that  we  expect  you  to  address  your- 
self. I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  I  am  afraid  I  must  disap- 
point these  expectations.  I  am  bound  by  my  own 
definition  of  criticism;  a  disinterested  endeavor  tolearn 
and  propagate  the  hest  that  is  known  and  thought  in 
the  loorld.  How  much  of  current  English  literature 
comes  into  this  "  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in 
the  world  "  ?  Not  very  much  I  fear ;  certainly  less,  at 
this  moment,  than  of  the  current  literature  of  France 
or  Germany.  Well,  then,  am  I  to  alter  my  definition 
of  criticism,  in  order  to  meet  the  requirements  of  a 
number  of  practising  English  critics,  who,  after  all,  are 
free  in  their  choice  of  a  business?  That  would  be 
making  criticism  lend  itself  just  to  one  of  those  alien 
practical  considerations,  which,  I  have  said,  are  so  fatal 
to  it.  One  may  say,  indeed,  to  those  who  have  to  deal 
with  the  mass  —  so  much  better  disregarded  —  of  cur- 
rent English  literature,  that  they  may  at  all  events 
endeavor,  in  dealing  with  this,  to  try  it,  so  far  as  they 
can,  by  the  standard  of  the  best  that  is  known  and 
thought  in  the  world ;  one  may  say,  that  to  get  any- 
where near  this  standard,  every  critic  should  try  and 
possess  one  gi'eat  literature,  at  least,  besides  his  own  ; 
and  the  more  unlike  his  own,  the  better.  But,  after  all, 
the  criticism  I  am  really  concerned  with,  —  the  criti- 
cism which  alone  can  much  help  us  for  the  future,  the 
criticism  which,  throughout  Europe,  is  at  the  present 
day  meant,  when  so  much  stress  is  laid  on  the  impor- 
tance of  criticism  and  the  critical  spirit,  —  is  a  criti- 
cism which  regards  Europe  as  being,  for  intellectual 
and  spiritual  purposes,  one  great  confederation,  bound 
to  a  joint  action  and  working  to  a  common  result ; 
and  whose  members  have,  for  their  proper  outfit,  a 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  53 

knowledge  of  Greek,  Roman,  and  Eastern  antiquity, 
and  of  one  another.  Special,  local,  and  temporary  ad- 
vantages being  put  out  of  account,  that  modern  nation 
will  in  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  sphere  make  most 
progress,  which  most  thoroughly  carries  out  this  pro- 
gram. And  what  is  that  but  saying  that  we  too,  all  of 
us,  as  individuals,  the  more  thoroughly  we  carry  it  out, 
shall  make  the  more  progress? 

There  is  so  much  inviting  us !  —  what  are  we  to 
take?  what  will  nourish  us  in  growth  towards  perfec- 
tion? That  is  the  question  which,  with  the  immense 
field  of  life  and  of  literature  lying  before  him,  the 
critic  has  to  answer;  for  himself  first,  and  afterwards 
for  others.  In  this  idea  of  the  critic's  business  the  es- 
says brought  together  in  the  following  pages  have  had 
their  origin ;  in  this  idea,  widely  different  as  are  their 
subjects,  they  have,  perhaps,  their  unity. 

I  conclude  with  what  I  said  at  the  beginning :  to 
have  the  sense  of  creative  activity  is  the  great  happi- 
ness and  the  great  proof  of  being  alive,  and  it  is  not 
denied  to  criticism  to  have  it ;  but  then  criticism  must 
be  sincere,  simple,  flexible,  ardent,  ever  widening  its 
knowledge.  Then  it  may  have,  in  no  contemptible 
measure,  a  joyful  sense  of  creative  activity ;  a  sense 
which  a  man  of  insight  and  conscience  will  prefer  to 
what  he  might  derive  from  a  poor,  starved,  fragmen- 
tary, inadequate  creation.  And  at  some  epochs  no  other 
creation  is  possible. 

Still,  in  full  measure,  the  sense  of  creative  activity 
belongs  only  to  genuine  creation  ;  in  literature  we  must 
never  forget  that.  But  what  true  man  of  letters  ever 
can  forget  it  ?  It  is  no  such  common  matter  for  a  gifted 
nature  to  come  into  possession  of  a  current  of  true  and 
living  ideas,  and  to  produce  amidst  the  inspiration  of 
them,  that  we  are  likely  to  unden-ate  it.  The  epochs 


54  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  -iEschylus  and  Shakespeare  make  us  feel  their  pre- 
eminence. In  an  epoch  like  those  is,  no  doubt,  the  true 
life  of  literature;  there  is  the  promised  land,  towards 
which  criticism  can  only  beckon.  That  promised  land 
it  will  not  be  ours  to  enter,  and  we  shall  die  in  the 
wilderness :  but  to  have  desired  to  enter  it,  to  have 
saluted  it  from  afar,  is  already,  perhaps,  the  best  dis- 
tinction among  contemporaries  ;  it  will  certainly  be  the 
best  title  to  esteem  with  posterity. 


(p.  u 


V) 


THE   STUDY  OF  POETRY  i 

"  The  future  of  poetry  is  immense,  because  in  poetry, 
where  it  is  worthy  of  its  high  destinies,  our  race,  as 
time  goes  on,  will  find  an  ever  surer  and  surer  stay. 

3 ere  is  not  a  creed  which  is  not  shaken,  not  an 
redited  dogma  which  is  not  shown  to  be  question- 
aWe,  not  a  received  tradition  which  does  not  threaten 
t|  dissolve.  Our  religion  has  materialized  itself  in  the 
fi.ct,  in  the  supposed  fact ;  it  has  attached  its  emotion 
i  the  fact,  and  now  the  fact  is  failing  it.  But  for  poetry 
^le  idea  is  everything;  the  rest  is  a  world  of  illusion, 
It  divine  illusion.  Poetry  attaches  its  emotion  to  the 
lea ;  the  idea  is  the  fact.  The  strongest  part  of  our 
eligion  to-day  is  its  unconscious  poetry."  ^ 
I  Let  me  be  permitted  to  quote  these  words  of  my 
wn,  as  uttering  the  thought  which  should,  in  my 
pinion,  go  with  us  and  govern  us  in  all  our  study  of 
)oetry.    In  the  present  woi'k  it  is  the  course  of  one 

!;reat  contributory  stream  to  the  world-river  of  poetiy 
hat  we  are  invited  to  follow.  We  are  here  invited  to 
.race  the  stream  of  English  poetry.  But  whether  we 
;et  ourselves,  as  here,  to  follow  only  one  of  the  several 
;treams  that  make  the  mighty  river  of  poetry,  or 
vhether  we  seek  to  know  them  all,  our  governing 
thought  should  be  the  same.  We  should  conceive  of 
poetry  worthily,  and  more  highly  than  it  has  been  the 
3ustom  to  conceive  of  it.  We  should  conceive  of  it  as 
capable  of  higher  uses,  and  called  to  higher  destinies, 
than  those  which  in  general  men  have  assigned  to  it 
hitherto.  More  and  more  mankind  will  discover  that  we 
have  to  turn  to  poetry  to  interpret  life  for  us,  to  con- 


56  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

sole  us,  to  sustain  us.  Without  poetry,  our  science  will 
appear  incomplete  ;  and  most  of  what  now  passes  with 
us  for  religion  and  philosophy  will  be  rejilaced  by  poetry. 
Science,  I  say,  will  appear  incomplete  without  it.   For 
finely  and  truly  does  Wordsworth  call  poetry  "the 
impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the  countenance 
of  all  science"  ;i  and  what  is  a  countenance  without 
its  expression?  Again,  Wordsworth  finely  and  truly 
calls  poetry  "  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowl- 
edge " :  ^  our  religion,  parading  evidences  such  as  tlx)se 
on  which  the  popular  mind  relies  now  ;  our  philosopiy, 
pluming  itself  on  its  reasonings  about  causation  aid 
finite  and  infinite  being ;  what  are  they  but  the  sh:d- 
ows  and  dreams  and  false  shows  of  knowledge  ?  lie 
day  will  come  when  we  shall  wonder  at  ourselves  j>r 
having  trusted  to  them,  for  having  taken  them  sei- 
ously ;  and  the  more  we  perceive  their  hoUowness,  te 
more  we  shall  prize  "the  breath  and  finer  spirit  f 
knowledge"  offered  to  us  by  poetry. 

But  if  w^e  conceive  thus  highly  of  the  destinies  f 
poetry,  we  must  also  set  our  standard  for  poetry  hig, 
since  poetry,  to  be  capable  of  fulfilling  such  high  d€- 
tinies,  must  be  poetry  of  a  high  order  of  excellenc 
We  must  accustom  ourselves  to  a  high  standard  ai 
to  a  strict  judgment.  Sainte-Beuve  relates  that  Nap 
leon  one  day  said,  when  somebody  was  spoken  of  i 
his  presence  as  a  charlatan :  "  Charlatan  as  muc 
as  you  please  ;  but  where  is  there  not  charlatanism  ? 
—  "Yes,"  answers  Saiiite-Beuve,^  "in  politics,  in  tl 
art  of  governing  mankind,  that  is  perhaps  true.  Bi 
in  the  order  of  thought,  in  art,  the  glory,  the  ete: 
nal  honor  is  that  charlatanism  shall  find  no  entrance 
herein  lies  the  inviolableness  of  that  noble  portion  c 
man's  being."  It  is  admirably  said,  and  let  us  hold  fas 
to  it.  In  poetry,  which  is  thought  and  art  in  one,  it  i 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  57 

the  glory,  the  eternal  honor,  that  charlatanism  shall  find 
no  entrance  ;  that  this  noble  sphere  be  kept  inviolate 
and  inviolable.  Charlatanism  is  for  confusing  or  oblit- 
erating the  distinctions  between  excellent  and  infe- 
rior, sound  and  unsound  or  only  half-sound,  true  and 
untrue  or  only  half-true.  It  is  charlatanism,  conscious 
or  unconscious,  whenever  we  confuse  or  obliterate  these. 
And  in  poetry,  more  than  anywhere  else,  it  is  unper- 
missible  to  confuse  or  obliterate  them.  For  in  poetry 
the  distinction  between  excellent  and  inferior,  sound 
and  unsound  or  only  half-sound,  true  and  untrue  or 
only  half-true,  is  of  paramount  importance.  It  is  of 
paramoimt  importance  because  of  the  high  destinies 
of  poetry.  In  poetry,  as  a  criticism  of  life  ^  under  the 
conditions  fixed  for  such  a  criticism  by  the  laws  of 
poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty,  the  spirit  of  our  race 
will  find,  we  have  said,  as  time  goes  on  and  as  other 
helps  fail,  its  consolation  and  stay.  But  the  consola- 
tion and  stay  will  be  of  power  in  proportion  to  the 
power  of  the  criticism  of  life.  And  the  criticism  of  life 
will  be  of  power  in  proportion  as  the  poetry  conveying 
it  is  excellent  rather  than  inferior,  sound  rather  than 
unsound  or  half-sound,  true  rather  than  untrue  or 
half -true. 

The  best  poetry  is  what  we  want ;  the  best  poetry 
will  be  found  to  have  a  power  of  forming,  sustain- 
ing, and  delighting  us,  as  nothing  else  can.  A  clearer, 
deeper  sense  of  the  best^  in  poetry,  and  of  the  strengih 
and  joy  to  be  drawn  from  it,  is  the  most  jirecious  benefit 
which  we  can  gather  from  a  poetical  collection  such  as 
the  present.  And  yet  in  the  very  nature  and  conduct 
of  such  a  collection  there  is  inevitably  something  which 
tends  to  obscure  in  us  the  consciousness  of  what  our 
benefit  should  be,  and  to  distract  us  from  the  pursuit 
of  it.  We  should  therefore  steadily  set  it  before  our 


58  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

minds  at  the  outset,  and  should  compel  ourselves  to 
revert  constantly  to  the  thought  of  it  as  we  proceed. 

Yes  ;  constantly  in  reading  poetry,  a  sense  for  the 
best,  the  really  excellent,  and  of  the  strength  and  joy 
to  be  drawn  from  it,  should  be  present  in  our  minds 
and  should  govern  our  estimate  of  what  we  read.  But 
this  real  estimate,  the  only  true  one,  is  liable  to  be 
superseded,  if  we  are  not  watchful,  by  two  other  kinds 
of  estimate,  the  historic  estimate  and  the  personal 
estimate,  both  of  which  are  fallacious.  A  poet  or  a 
poem  may  count  to  us  historically,  they  may  count  to 
us  on  grounds  personal  to  ourselves,  and  they  may 
count  to  us  really.  They  may  count  to  us  historically. 
The  course  of  development  of  a  nation's  language, 
thought,  and  poetry,  is  profoundly  interesting  ;  and  by 
regarding  a  poet's  work  as  a  stage  in  this  course  of 
development  we  may  easily  bring  ourselves  to  make  it 
of  more  importance  as  poetry  than  in  itself  it  reaUy  is, 
we  may  come  to  use  a  language  of  quite  exaggerated 
praise  in  criticising  it ;  in  short,  to  over-rate  it.  So 
arises  in  our  poetic  judgments  the  fallacy  caused  by 
the  estimate  which  we  may  caU  historic.  Then,  again, 
a  poet  or  a  poem  may  count  to  us  on  grounds  personal 
to  ourselves.  Our  personal  affinities,  likings,  and  cir- 
cumstances,  have  great  power  to  sway  our  estimate  of 
this  or  that  poet's  work,  and  to  make  us  attach  more 
importance  to  it  as  poetry  than  in  itself  it  really  pos- 
sesses, because  to  us  it  is,  or  has  been,  of  high  im- 
portance. Here  also  we  over-rate  the  object  of  our 
interest,  and  apply  to  it  a  language  of  praise  which  is 
quite  exaggerated.  And  thus  we  get  the  source  of  a 
second  fallacy  in  our  poetic  judgments — the  fallacy 
caused  by  an  estimate  which  we  may  call  personal. 

Both  fallacies  are  natural.  It  is  evident  how  natu- 
rally the  study  of  the  history  and  development  of  a 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  59 

poetry  may  incline  a  man  to  pause  over  reputations 
and  works  once  conspicuous  but  now  obscure,  and  to 
quarrel  with  a  careless  public  for  skipping,  in  obedi- 
ence to  mere  tradition  and  habit,  from  one  famous 
name  or  work  in  its  national  poetry  to  another,  igno- 
rant of  what  it  misses,  and  of  the  reason  for  keeping 
what  it  keeps,  and  of  the  whole  process  of  growth  in 
its  poetry.  The  French  have  become  diligent  students 
of  their  own  early  poetry,  which  they  long  neglected; 
the  study  makes  many  of  them  dissatisfied  with  their 
so-called  classical  poetry,  the  court-tragedy  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  a  poetry  which  Pellisson^  long 
ago  reproached  with  its  want  of  the  true  poetic  stamp, 
with  its  politesse  sterile  et  rami^ante?  but  which 
nevertheless  has  reigned  in  France  as  absolutely  as  if 
it  had  been  the  perfection  of  classical  poetry  indeed. 
The  dissatisfaction  is  natural ;  yet  a  lively  and  accom- 
plished critic,  M.  Charles  d'Hericault,^  the  editor  of 
Clement  Marot,  goes  too  far  when  he  says  that  "  the 
cloud  of  glory  playing  round  a  classic  is  a  mist  as 
dangerous  to  the  future  of  a  literature  as  it  is  intoler- 
able for  the  purposes  of  history."  "  It  hinders,"  he 
goes  on,  "  it  hinders  us  from  seeing  more  than  one 
single  point,  the  culminating  and  exceptional  point ; 
the  summary,  fictitious  and  arbitrary,  of  a  thought  and 
of  a  work.  It  substitutes  a  halo  for  a  physiognomy,  it 
puts  a  statue  where  there  was  once  a  man,  and  hiding 
from  us  all  trace  of  the  labor,  the  attempts,  the  weak- 
nesses, the  failures,  it  claims  not  study  but  veneration ; 
it  does  not  show  us  how  the  thing  is  done,  it  imposes 
upon  us  a  model.  Above  all,  for  the  historian  this 
creation  of  classic  personages  is  inadmissible  ;  for  it 
withdraws  the  poet  from  his  time,  from  his  proper  life, 
it  breaks  historical  relationships,  it  blinds  criticism  by 
conventional  admiration,  and  renders  the  investigation 


60  IVLVTTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  literary  origins  unacceptable.  It  gives  us  a  human 
personage  no  longer,  but  a  God  seated  immovable 
amidst  His  perfect  work,  like  Jupiter  on  Olympus; 
and  hardly  will  it  be  possible  for  the  young  student, 
to  whom  such  work  is  exhibited  at  such  a  distance 
from  him,  to  believe  that  it  did  not  issue  ready  made 
from  that  divine  head." 

All  this  is  brilliantly  and  tellingly  said,  but  we  must 
plead  for  a  distinction.  Everything  depends  on  the 
reality  of  a  poet's  classic  character.  If  he  is  a  dubious 
classic,  let  us  sift  him ;  if  he  is  a  false  classic,  let  us 
explode  him.  But  if  he  is  a  real  classic,  if  his  work 
belongs  to  the  class  of  the  very  best  (for  this  is  the  true 
and  right  meaning  of  the  word  classic,  classical),  then 
the  great  thing  for  us  is  to  feel  and  enjoy  his  work  as 
deeply  as  ever  we  can,  and  to  appreciate  the  wide  dif- 
ference between  it  and  all  work  which  has  not  the 
same  high  chai'acter.  This  is  what  is  salutary,  this  is 
what  is  formative ;  this  is  the  great  benefit  to  be  got 
from  the  study  of  poetry.  Everything  which  interferes 
with  it,  which  hinders  it,  is  injurious.  True,  we  must 
read  our  classic  with  open  eyes,  and  not  with  eyes 
blinded  with  superstition  ;  we  must  perceive  when  his 
work  comes  short,  when  it  drops  out  of  the  class  of 
the  very  best,  and  we  must  rate  it,  in  such  cases,  at 
its  proper  value.  But  the  use  of  this  negative  criti- 
cism is  not  in  itself,  it  is  entirely  in  its  enabling  us  to 
have  a  clearer  sense  and  a  deeper  enjoyment  of  what 
is  truly  excellent.  To  trace  the  labor,  the  attempts, 
the  weaknesses,  the  faihn-es  of  a  genuine  classic,  to 
acquaint  oneself  with  his  time  and  his  life  and  his 
historical  relationships,  is  mere  literary  dilettantism 
imless  it  has  that  clear  sense  and  deeper  enjoyment  for 
its  end.  It  may  be  said  that  the  more  we  know  about 
a  classic  the  better  we  shall  enjoy  him ;  and,  if  we 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  61 

lived  as  long  as  Methuselah  and  had  all  of  us  heads 
of  perfect  clearness  and  wills  of  perfect  steadfastness, 
this  might  be  true  in  fact  as  it  is  plausible  in  theory. 
But  the  case  here  is  much  the  same  as  the  case  with 
the  Greek  and  Latin  studies  of  our  schoolboys.  The 
elaborate  philological  groundwork  which  we  require 
them  to  lay  is  in  theory  an  admirable  preparation  for 
appreciating  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  worthily. 
The  more  thoroughly  we  lay  the  groundwork,  the  better 
we  shall  be  able,  it  may  be  said,  to  enjoy  the  authors. 
True,  if  time  were  not  so  short,  and  schoolboys'  wits 
not  so  soon  tired  and  their  power  of  attention  ex- 
hausted ;  only,  as  it  is,  the  elaborate  philological  j^rep- 
aration  goes  on,  but  the  authors  are  little  known  and 
less  enjoyed.  So  with  the  investigator  of  "  historic  ori- 
gins "  in  poetry.  He  ought  to  enjoy  the  true  classic  all 
the  better  for  his  investigations;  he  often  is  distracted 
from  the  enjoyment  of  the  best,  and  with  the  less 
good  he  overbusies  himself,  and  is  prone  to  over-rate 
it  in  proportion  to  the  trouble  which  it  has  cost  him. 

The  idea  of  tracing  historic  origins  and  historical 
relationships  cannot  be  absent  from  a  compilation  like 
the  present.  And  naturally  the  poets  to  be  exhibited 
in  it  will  be  assigned  to  those  persons  for  exhibition 
who  are  known  to  prize  them  highly,  rather  than  to 
those  who  have  no  special  inclination  towards  them. 
^  Moreover  the  very  occupation  with  an  author,  and  the 
business  of  exhibiting  him,  disposes  us  to  affirm  and 
amplify  his  importance.  In  the  present  work,  there- 
fore, we  are  sure  of  frequent  temptation  to  adopt  the 
historic  estimate,  or  the  personal  estimate,  and  to  for- 
get the  real  estimate  ;  which  latter,  nevertheless,  we 
must  employ  if  we  are  to  make  poetry  yield  us  its  full 
benefit.  So  high  is  that  benefit,  the  benefit  of  clearly 
feeling  and  of  deeply  enjoying  the  really  excellent, 


02  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

the  truly  classic  in  poetry,  that  we  do  well,  I  say,  to 
set  it  fixedly  before  our  minds  as  our  object  in  study- 
ing poets  and  poetry,  and  to  make  the  desire  of  attain- 
ing it  the  one  principle  to  which,  as  the  Imitation  says, 
whatever  we  may  read  or  come  to  know,  we  always 
return.  Cum  multa  legeris  et  cognoveris,  ad  unum 
se77iper  oportet  redire  principium?- 
I  The  historic  estimate  is  likely  in  especial  to  affect 
our  judgment  and  our  language  when  we  are  dealing 
I  with  ancient  poets  ;  the  personal  estimate  when  we  are 
1  1  dealing  with  poets  our  contemporaries,  or  at  any  rate 
^iLmodern.  The  exaggerations  due  to  the  historic  esti- 
mate are  not  in  themselves,  perhaps,  of  very  much 
gravity.  Their  report  hardly  enters  the  general  ear ; 
probably  they  do  not  always  impose  even  on  the  liter- 
ary men  who  adopt  them.  But  they  lead  to  a  danger- 
ous abuse  of  language.  So  we  hear  Csedmon,^  amongst 
our  own  poets,  compared  to  Milton.  I  have  already 
noticed  the  enthusiasm  of  one  accomplished  French 
critic  for  "  historic  origins."  Another  eminent  French 
critic,  M.  Vitet,^  comments  upon  that  famous  docu- 
ment of  the  early  poetry  of  his  nation,  the  Chanson 
de  Roland.^  It  is  indeed  a  most  interesting  document. 
The  jocidator  or  jongleur  Taillefer,  who  was  with 
William  the  Conqueror's  army  at  Hastings,  marched 
before  the  Norman  troops,  so  said  the  tradition,  sing- 
ing "of  Charlemagne  and  of  Roland  and  of  Oliver, 
and  of  the  vassals  who  died  at  Roncevaux  "  ;  and  it  is 
suggested  that  in  the  Chanson  de  Roland  by  one 
Turoldus  or  Theroulde,  a  poem  preserved  in  a  manu- 
script of  the  twelfth  century  in  the  Bodleian  Library 
at  Oxford,  we  have  certainly  the  matter,  perhaps  even 
some  of  the  words,  of  the  chant  which  Taillefer  sang. 
The  poem  has  vigor  and  freshness ;  it  is  not  without 
pathos.  But  M.  Vitet  is  not  satisfied  with  seeing  in  it 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  63 

a  document  of  some  poetic  value,  and  of  very  high 
historic  and  linguistic  value  ;  he  sees  in  it  a  grand  and 
beautiful  work,  a  monument  of  epic  genius.  In  its 
general  design  he  finds  the  grandiose  conception,  in 
its  details  he  finds  the  constant  union  of  simplicity 
with  greatness,  which  are  the  marks,  he  truly  says,  of 
the  genuine  epic,  and  distinguish  it  from  the  artificial 
epic  of  literary  ages.  One  thinks  of  Homer;  this  is 
the  sort  of  praise  which  is  given  to  Homer,  and  justly 
given.  Higher  praise  there  cannot  well  be,  and  it  is 
the  praise  due  to  epic  poetry  of  the  highest  order  only, 
and  to  no  other.  Let  us  try,  then,  the  Chanson  de 
Roland  at  its  best.  Roland,  mortally  wounded,  lays 
himself  down  under  a  pine-tree,  with  his  face  turned 
towards  Spain  and  the  enemy  — 

"  De  plusurs  choses  k  remembrer  li  prist, 
De  tantes  teres  cume  li  bers  cunquisfc, 
De  dulce  France,  des  humes  de  sun  lign, 
De  Carlemagne  sun  seignor  ki  I'nurrit."  ^ 

That  is  primitive  work,  I  repeat,  with  an  undeniable 
poetic  quality  of  its  own.  It  deserves  such  praise,  and 
such  praise  is  sufficient  for  it.  But  now  turn  to  Homer — 

''Cis  <pa.TO-  Tovs  8'  ^Stj  KaTfx^v  (pval^oos  ala 
€P  AaKfSalfjLOVi  ad6i,  (piXri  eV  irarpiSi  yairj^ 

We  are  here  in  another  world,  another  order  of 
poetry  altogether ;  here  is  rightly  due  such  supreme 
praise  as  that  which  M.  Vitet  gives  to  the  Chanson 
de  Roland.  If  our  words  are  to  have  any  meaning, 
if  our  judgments  are  to  have  any  solidity,  we  must 
not  heap  that  supreme  praise  upon  poetry  of  an  order 
immeasurably  inferior. 

Indeed  there  can  be  no  more  useful  help  for  dis- 
covering what  poetry  belongs  to  the  class  of  the  truly 
excellent,  and  can  therefore  do  us  most  good,  than  to 
have  always  in  one's  mind  lines  and  expressions  of  the 


64  MATTHEW  AENOLD 

^reat  masters,  and  to  apply  them  as  a  touchstone  to 
other  poetry.  Of  course  we  are  not  to  require  this 
other  poetry  to  resemble  them ;  it  may  be  very  dis- 
similar. But  if  we  have  any  tact  we  shall  find  them, 
when  we  have  lodged  them  well  in  our  minds,  an 
infallible  touchstone  for  detecting  the  presence  or 
absence  of  high  poetic  quality,  and  also  the  degree  of 
this  quality,  in  all  other  poetry  which  we  may  place 
beside  them.  Short  passages,  even  single  lines,  will 
serve  our  turn  quite  sufficiently.  Take  the  two  lines 
which  I  have  just  quoted  from  Homer,  the  poet's 
comment  on  Helen's  mention  of  her  brothers ;  —  or 
take  his 

'a  SfiXd,  ri  (T<pwl  S6fj.ev  U-qKrj'i  ivaKTi 
BvrjTa  ;  vfie^s  S'  fffrhv  ayrtpv  t   adavdrw  re. 
^  'iva  Sva'TrjvoicTi  /jl€t'  auSpdaii'  &\y€^  €X'J''"*"'>  ^ 

the  address  of  Zeus  to  the  horses  of  Peleus  ;  —  or  take 
finally  his 

Koi  <Tf,  yfpoy,  rh  irplv  yuev'  aKOvofxev  lj\$iov  elvai-  ^ 

the  words  of  Achilles  to  Priam,  a  suppliant  before 

him.  Take  that  incomparable  line  and  a  half  of  Dante, 

Ugolino's  tremendous  words  — 

"  lo  no  piangeva  ;  si  dentro  impietrai. 
Piangevan  elli  .  .  ."  ^ 

take  the  lovely  words  of  Beatrice  to  Virgil  — 

"  lo  son  fatta  da  Dio,  sua  merc^,  tale, 
Che  la  vostra  miseria  non  mi  taiige, 
Ne  fiamma  d'esto  iiicendio  non  m'assale  ..."  * 

take  the  simple,  but  perfect,  single  line  — 

"  In  la  sua  volontade  ^  nostra  pace."  ^ 

Take  of  Shakespeare  a  line    or  two  of  Henry  the 

Fourth's  expostulation  with  sleep  — 

"  Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  tlie  ship-boy's  e3es,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge  ..."  * 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  65 

and  take,  as  well,  Hamlet's  dying  request  to  Horatio  — 

"  If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain 
To  tell  my  story  .  .  ."  ^ 

Take  of  Milkm  that  Miltonic  passage  — 

"  Darken'd  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  archangel  ;  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intreuch'd,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek  .  .  ."  ^ 

add  two  such  lines  as  — 

"  And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome  .  .  ."  ^ 

and  finish  with  the  exquisite  close  to  the  loss  of  Proser- 
pine, the  loss 

"...  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world."  * 

These  few  lines,  if  we  have  tact  and  can  use  them,  are 
enough  even  of  themselves  to  keep  clear  and  sound 
our  judgments  about  poetry,  to  save  us  from  fallacious 
estimates  of  it,  to  conduct  us  to  a  real  estimate. 

The  specimens  I  have  quoted  differ  widely  from 
one  another,  but  they  have  in  common  this  :  the  pos- 
session of  the  very  highest  poetical  quality.  If  we  are 
thoroughly  penetrated  by  their  power,  we  shall  find 
that  we  have  acquired  a  sense  enabling  us,  whatever 
poetry  may  be  laid  before  us,  to  feel  the  degree  in 
which  a  high  poetical  quality  is  present  or  wanting 
there.  Critics  give  themselves  great  labor  to  draw  out 
what  in  the  abstract  constitutes  the  characters  of  a 
high  quality  of  poetry.  It  is  much  better  simply  to 
have  recourse  to  concrete  examples  ;  —  to  take  speci- 
mens of  poetry  of  the  high,  the  very  highest  qual- 
ity, and  to  say :  The  characters  of  a  high  quality  of 
poetry  are  what  is  expressed  there.  They  are  far  better 


66  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

recognized  by  being  felt  in  the  verse  of  the  master, 
than   by  being  perused  in  the    prose  of  the  critic. 
Nevertheless  if  we  are  urgently  pressed  to  give  some 
I       critical  account  of  them,  we  may  safely,  perhaps,  ven- 
ture on  laying  down,  not  indeed  how  and  why  the 
characters  arise,  but  where  and  in  what  they  arise. 
They  are  in  the  matter  and  substance  of  the  poetry, 
and  they  are  in  its  manner  and  style.  Both  of  these, 
the  substance  and  matter  on  the  one  hand,  the  style 
and  manner  on  the  other,  have  a  mark,  an  accent, 
of  high  beauty,  worth,  and  power.    But  if  we  are 
asked  to  define  this  mark  and  accent  in  the  abstract, 
our  answer  must  be :  No,  for  we  should  thereby  be 
darkening  the  question,  not  clearing  it.  The   mark 
and  accent  are  as  given  by  the  substance  and  matter 
of  that  poetry,  by  the  style  and  manner  of  that  poetry, 
and  of  all  other  poetry  which  is  akin  to  it  in  quality. 
Only  one  thing  we  may  add  as  to  the  substance 
and   matter   of    poetry,   guiding    ourselves    by  Aris- 
totle's profound  observation  ^  that  the  superiority  of 
i_  (,         poetry  over  history  consists  in  its  possessing  a  higher 
I         truth  and  a  higher  seriousness  (^(})t\oao(j)(OT€pov   Kal 
^  jif/ya-'TrovSaioTepov').  Let  us  add,  therefore,  to  what  we 
U^       have  said,  this  :   that  the  substance  and  matter  of  the 
best  poetry  acquire  their  special  character  from  pos- 
sessing, in  an  eminent  degree,  truth  and  seriousness. 
We  may  add  yet  further,  what  is  in  itself  evident, 
that  to  the  style  and  manner  of  the  best  poetry  their 
special  character,  their  accent,  is  given  by  their  diction, 
and,  even  yet  more,  by  their  movement.  And  though 
we  distinguish  between  the  two  characters,  the  two 
accents,  of  superiority,  yet  they  are  nevertheless  vitally 
j    connected  one  with  the  other.  The  superior  character 
j    of  truth  and  seriousness,  in  the  matter  and  substance  of 
[    the  best  poetry,  is  inseparable  from  the  superiority 


THE  STUDY  OP  POETRY  67 

of  diction  and  movement  marking  its  style  and  man- 
ner. The  two  superiorities  are  closely  related,  and  are 
in  steadfast  proportion  one  to  the  other.  So  far  as 
high  poetic  truth  and  seriousness  are  wanting  to  a 
poet's  matter  and  substance,  so  far  also,  we  may  be  y*^ 

sure,  will  a  high  poetic  stamp  of  diction  and  move-  ^^^\^  '^ 
ment  be  wanting  to  his  style  and  manner.  In  propor-        ..  .'^''^ 
tion   as  this   high  stamp  of  diction  and  movement, 
again,  is  absent  from  a  poet's  style  and  manner,  we 
shall  find,  also,  that  high  poetic  truth  and  seriousness 
are  absent  from  his  substance  and  matter.  "T 

So  stated,  these  are  but  dry  generalities ;  their 
whole  force  lies    in   their  application.  And  I  could  .»«. 

wish  every  student  of  poetry  to  make  the  application 
of  them  for  himself.  Made  by  himself,  the  applica-  /  / '  ^ " 
tion  would  impress  itself  upon  his  mind  far  more 
deeply  than  made  by  me.  Neither  will  my  limits 
allow  me  to  make  any  full  application  of  the  gener-  x/t^.^ 
alities  above  propounded  ;  but  in  the  hope  of  bring- 
ing out,  at  any  rate,  some  significance  in  them,  and 
of  establishing  an  important  principle  more  firmly  by 
their  means,  I  wiU,  in  the  space  which  remains  to  me, 
follow  rapidly  from  the  commencement  the  course  of 
our  English  poetry  with  them  in  my  view. 

Once  more  I  return  to  the  early  poetry  of  France, 
with  which  our  own  poetry,  in  its  origins,  is  indis- 
solubly  connected.  In  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies, that  seed-time  of  all  modern  language  and 
literature,  the  poetry  of  France  had  a  clear  pi-edomi- 
nance  in  Europe.  Of  the  two  divisions  of  that  poetry, 
its  productions  in  the  langue  d'o'il  and  its  productions 
in  the  langve  d'oc,  the  poetry  of  the  langue  cVoc} 
of  southern  France,  of  the  troubadours,  is  of  impor- 
tance because  of  its  effect  on  Italian  literature ;  —  the 
first  literature  of  modern  Europe  to  strike  the  true  and 


68  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

grand  note,  and  to  bring  forth,  as  in  Dante  and  Pe- 
trarch it  brought  forth,  classics.  But  the  predomi- 
nance of  French  poetry  in  Eui'ope,  during  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  is  due  to  its  poetry  of  the 
langue  cTo'il,  the  poetry  of  northern  France  and  of 
the  tongue  which  is  now  the  French  language.  In  the 
twelfth  century  the  bloom  of  this  romance-poetry  was 
earlier  and  stronger  in  England,  at  the  court  of  our 
Anglo-Norman  kings,  than  in  France  itself.  But  it 
was  a  bloom  of  French  poetry;  and  as  our  native 
poetry  formed  itself,  it  formed  itself  out  of  this.  The 
romance-poems  which  took  possession  of  the  heart  and 
imagination  of  Europe  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries  are  French  ;  "  they  are,"  as  Southey  justly 
says,  "  the  pride  of  French  literature,  nor  have  we 
anything  which  can  be  placed  in  competition  with 
them."  Themes  were  supplied  from  all  quarters  :  but 
the  romance-setting  which  was  common  to  them  all, 
and  which  gained  the  ear  of  Europe,  was  French. 
This  constituted  for  the  French  poetry,  literature,  and 
language,  at  the  height  of  the  Middle  Age,  an  unchal- 
lenged predominance.  The  Italian  Brunetto  Latini,^ 
the  master  of  Dante,  wrote  his  Treasure  in  French 
because,  he  says,  "  la  parleure  en  est  plus  delitable  et 
plus  commune  a  toutes  gens."  In  the  same  century, 
the  thirteenth,  the  French  romance-writer.  Christian 
of  Troyes,^  formulates  the  claims,  in  chivalry  and  let- 
ters, of  France,  his  native  country,  as  follows  :  — 

"  Or  vons  ert  par  ce  livre  apris, 
Que  Gresse  ot  de  chevalerie 
Le  premier  los  et  de  clergie  ; 
Puis  vint  chevalerie  h  Roine, 
Et  de  la  clergie  la  some, 
Qui  ore  est  en  France  venue. 
Diex  doinst  qu'ele  i  soit  retenue 
Et  que  li  lius  li  abelisse 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  69 

Tant  que  de  France  n'isse 
L'onor  qui  s'i  est  arest^e  !  " 

"  Now  by  this  book  you  will  learn  that  first  Greece 
Lad  the  renown  for  chivalry  and  letters  :  then  chivalry 
and  the  primacy  in  letters  passed  to  Rome,  and  now 
it  is  come  to  France.  God  grant  it  may  be  kept  there ; 
and  that  the  place  may  please  it  so  well,  that  the  honor 
which  has  come  to  make  stay  in  France  may  never 
depart  thence !  " 

Yet  it  is  now  all  gone,  this  French  romance-poetry, 
of  which  the  weight  of  substance  and  the  power  of 
style  are  not  unfairly  represented  by  this  extract  from 
Christian  of  Troyes.  Only  by  means  of  the  historic 
estimate  can  we  persuade  ourselves  now  to  think  that 
any  of  it  is  of  poetical  importance. 

But  in  the  fourteenth  century  there  comes  an  Eng- 
lishman nourished  on  this  poetry  ;  taught  his  trade  by 
this  poetry,  getting  words,  rhyme,  meter  from  this 
poetry ;  for  even  of  that  stanza  ^  which  the  Italians 
used,  and  which  Chaucer  derived  immediately  from  the 
Italians,  the  basis  and  suggestion  was  probably  given 
in  France.  Chaucer  (I  have  already  named  him)  fas- 
cinated his  contemporaries,  but  so  too  did  Christian 
of  Troyes  and  Wolfram  of  Eschenbach.  ^  Chaucer's 
power  of  fascination,  however,  is  enduring  ;  his  poetical 
importance  does  not  need  the  assistance  of  the  historic 
estimate  ;  it  is  real.  He  is  a  genuine  source  of  joy  and 
strength,  which  is  flowing  still  for  us  and  will  flow 
always.  He  will  be  read,  as  time  goes  on,  far  more 
generally  than  he  is  read  now.  His  language  is  a  cause 
of  difficulty  for  us  ;  but  so  also,  and  I  think  in  quite 
as  great  a  degree,  is  the  language  of  Burns.  In  Chau- 
cer's case,  as  in  that  of  Bui'us,  it  is  a  difficulty  to  be 
unhesitatingly  accepted  and  overcome. 

If  we  ask  ourselves  wherein  consists  the  immense 


70  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

superiority  of  Chaucer's  poetry  over  the  romance-poetry 
—  why  it  is  that  in  passing  from  this  to  Chaucer  we 
suddenly  feel  ourselves  to  be  in  another  world,  we  shall 
find  that  his  superiority  is  both  in  the  substance  of  his 
poetry  and  in  the  style  of  his  poetry.  His  superiority  in 
substance  is  given  by  his  large,  free,  simple,  clear  yet 
kindly  view  of  human  life,  —  so  unlike  the  total  want, 
in  the  romance-poets,  of  all  intelligent  command  of  it. 
Chaucer  has  not  their  helplessness ;  he  has  gained  the 
power  to  survey  the  world  from  a  central,  a  truly 
human  point  of  view.  We  have  only  to  call  to  mind 
the  Prologue  to  The  Canterbury  Tales.  The  right 
comment  upon  it  Is  Dryden's :  "  It  is  sufficient  to  say, 
according  to  the  proverb,  that  Aere  i.<?  GocVs  plenty  "^ 
And  again :  "  He  is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  good  sense." 
It  Is  by  a  large,  free,  sound  representation  of  things, 
that  poetry,  this  high  criticism  of  life,  has  truth  of 
substance ;  and  Chaucer's  poetry  has  truth  of  substance. 
Of  his  style  and  manner,  if  we  think  first  of  the 
romance-poetry  and  then  of  Chaucer's  divine  liquid- 
ness  of  diction,  his  divine  fluidity  of  movement,  it  is 
difficult  to  speak  temperately.  They  are  irresistible, 
and  justify  all  the  rapture  with  which  his  successors 
speak  of  his  "  gold  dew-drops  of  speech."  Johnson 
misses  the  point  entirely  when  he  finds  fault  with 
Dryden  for  ascribing  to  Chaucer  the  first  refinement 
of  our  numbers,  and  says  that  Gower  ^  also  can  show 
smooth  numbers  and  easy  rhymes.  The  refinement  of 
our  numbers  means  something  far  more  than  this.  A 
nation  may  have  versifiers  with  smooth  numbers  and 
easy  rhymes,  and  yet  may  have  no  real  poetry  at  all. 
Chaucer  is  the  father  of  our  splendid  English  poetry ; 
he  is  our  "  well  of  English  undefiled,"  because  by  tiie 
lovely  charm  of  his  diction,  the  lovely  charm  of  his 
movement,  he  makes  an  epoch  and  founds  a  tradition. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  71 

In  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Keats,  we  can  fol- 
low the  tradition  of  the  liquid  diction,  the  fluid  move- 
ment, of  Chaucer ;  at  one  time  it  is  his  liquid  diction  of 
which  in  these  poets  we  feel  the  virtue,  and  at  another 
time  it  is  his  fluid  movement.  And  the  virtue  is  irre- 
sistible. 

Bounded  as  is  my  space,  I  must  yet  find  room  for  an 
example  of  Chaucer's  virtue,  as  I  have  given  examples 
to  show  the  vii'tue  of  the  great  classics.  I  feel  disposed 
to  say  that  a  single  line  is  enough  to  show  the  charm 
of  Chaucer's  verse;  that  merely  one  line  like  this  — 
"  O  martyr  souded  ^  in  virgiuitee  !  " 

has  a  virtue  of  manner  and  movement  such  as  we  shall 
not  find  in  all  the  verse  of  romance-poetry ;  —  but  this 
is  saying  nothing.  The  virtue  is  such  as  we  shall  not 
find,  perhaps,  in  all  English  poetry,  outside  the  poets 
whom  I  have  named  as  the  special  inheritors  of  Chau- 
cer's tradition.  A  single  line,  however,  is  too  little  if 
we  have  not  the  strain  of  Chaucer's  verse  well  in  our 
memory;  let  us  take  a  stanza.  It  is  from  The  Pri- 
oress's Tale^  the  story  of  the  Christian  child  mur- 
dered in  a  Jewry — 

"  My  tlirote  is  cut  unto  my  nekke-bone 
Saide  this  child,  and  as  by  way  of  kinde 
I  should  have  deyd,  yea,  long^  time  agone  ; 
But  Jesu  Christ,  as  ye  in  bookes  finde, 
Will  that  his  glory  last  and  be  in  niinde, 
And  for  the  worship  of  his  mother  dere 
Yet  may  I  sing  O  Alma  loud  and  clere." 

Wordsworth  has  modernized  this  Tale,  and  to  feel 

how  delicate  and  evanescent  is  the  charm  of  verse,  we 

have  only  to  read  Wordsworth's  first  three  lines  of 

this  stanza  after  Chaucer's  — 

"  My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow, 
Said  this  young  child,  and  by  the  law  of  kind 
I  should  have  died,  yea,  many  hours  ago." 


72  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

The  charm  is  departed.  It  is  often  said  that  the 
power  of  liquidness  and  fluidity  in  Chaucer's  verse 
was  dependent  upon  a  free,  a  licentious  dealing  with 
language,  such  as  is  now  impossible ;  upon  a  liberty, 
such  as  Burns  too  enjoyed,  of  making  words  like  neck, 
bird,  into  a  dissyllable  by  adding  to  them,  and  words 
like  cause,  rhyme,  into  a  dissyllable  by  sounding  the 
e  mute.  It  is  true  that  Chaucer's  fluidity  is  conjoined 
with  this  liberty,  and  is  admirably  served  by  it;  but 
we  ought  not  to  say  that  it  was  dependent  upon  it. 
It  was  dependent  upon  his  talent.  Other  poets  with  a 
like  liberty  do  not  attain  to  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer ; 
Burns  himself  does  not  attain  to  it.  Poets,  again,  who 
have  a  talent  akin  to  Chaucer's,  such  as  Shakespeare 
or  Keats,  have  known  how  to  attain  to  his  fluidity 
without  the  like  liberty. 

And  yet  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great  classics. 
His  poetry  transcends  and  effaces,  easily  and  without 
effort,  all  the  romance-poetry  of  Catholic  Christendom  ; 
it  transcends  and  effaces  all  the  English  poetry  con- 
temporary with  it,  it  transcends  and  effaces  all  the 
English  poetry  subsequent  to  it  down  to  the  age  of 
Elizabeth.  Of  such  avail  is  poetic  truth  of  substance, 
in  its  natural  and  necessary  union  with  poetic  truth  of 
style.  And  yet,  I  say,  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great 
classics.  He  has  not  their  accent.  What  is  wanting  to 
him  is  suggested  by  the  mere  mention  of  the  name  of 
the  first  great  classic  of  Christendom,  the  immortal 
poet  who  died  eighty  years  before  Chaucer,  —  Dante. 
The  accent  of  such  verse  as 

"  In  la  sua  volontade  fe  nostra  pace  .  .  ." 

is  altogether  beyond  Chaucer's  reach ;  we  praise  him, 
but  we  feel  that  this  accent  is  out  of  the  question  for 
him.  It  may  be  said  that  it  was  necessarily  out  of  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  73 

reach  of  any  poet  in  the  England  of  that  stage  of 
growth.  Possibly ;  but  we  are  to  adopt  a  real,  not  a  his- 
toric, estimate  of  poetry.  However  we  may  account  for 
its  absence,  something  is  wanting,  then,  to  the  poetry 
of  Chaucer,  which  poetry  must  have  before  it  can  be 
placed  in  the  glorious  class  of  the  best.  And  there  is 
no  doubt  what  that  something  is.  It  is  the  o-TrouSaioT?/?, 
the  high  and  excellent  seriousness,  which  Aristotle 
assigns  as  one  of  the  grand  virtues  of  poetry.  The 
substance  of  Chaucer's  poetry,  his  view  of  things  and 
his  criticism  of  life,  has  largeness,  freedom,  shrewd- 
ness, benignity ;  but  it  has  not  this  high  seriousness. 
Homer's  criticism  of  life  has  it,  Dante's  has  it,  Shake- 
speare's has  it.  It  is  this  chiefly  which  gives  to  our 
spirits  what  they  can  rest  upon  ;  and  with  the  increas- 
ing demands  of  our  modern  ages  upon  poetry,  this 
virtue  of  giving  us  what  we  can  rest  upon  will  be  more 
and  more  highly  esteemed.  A  voice  from  the  slums 
of  Paris,  fifty  or  sixty  years  after  Chaucer,  the  voice 
of  poor  Villon  ^  out  of  his  life  of  riot  and  crime,  has 
at  its  happy  moments  (as,  for  instance,  in  the  last 
stanza  of  La  Belle  Heaulmiere  ^)  more  of  this  impor- 
tant poetic  virtue  of  seriousness  than  all  the  produc- 
tions of  Chaucer.  But  its  apparition  in  Villon,  and  in 
men  like  Villon,  is  fitful ;  the  greatness  of  the  great 
poets,  the  power  of  their  criticism  of  life,  is  that  their 
virtue  is  sustained. 

To  our  praise,  therefore,  of  Chaucer  as  a  poet  there 
must  be  this  limitation  :  he  lacks  the  high  seriousness 
of  the  great  classics,  and  therewith  an  important  part 
of  their  virtue.  Still,  the  main  fact  for  us  to  bear  in 
mind  about  Chaucer  is  his  sterling  value  according  to 
that  real  estimate  which  we  firmly  adopt  for  all  poets. 
He  has  poetic  truth  of  substance,  though  he  has  not 
high  poetic    seriousness,   and   corresponding   to  his 


74  ^L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

truth  of  substance  he  has  an  exquisite  virtue  of  style 
and  manner.   AVith  him  is  born  our  real  poetry. 

For  my  present  purpose  I  need  not  dwell  on  oiir 
Elizabethan  poetry,  or  on  the  continuation  and  close 
of  this  poetry  in  Milton.  AVe  all  of  us  profess  to  be 
agreed  in  the  estimate  of  this  poetry ;  we  all  of  us 
recognize  it  as  great  poetry,  our  greatest,  and  Shake- 
speare and  Milton  as  our  poetical  classics.  The  real 
estimate,  here,  has  universal  currency.  With  the  next 
age  of  our  poetry  divergency  and  difficulty  begin.  An 
historic  estimate  of  that  poetry  has  established  itself ; 
and  the  question  is,  whether  it  will  be  found  to  coin- 
cide with  the  real  estimate. 

The  age  of  Drj-den,  together  with  our  whole  eight- 
eenth century  which  followed  it,  sincerely  believed 
itself  to  have  produced  poetical  classics  of  its  own, 
and  even  to  have  made  advance,  in  poetry,  beyond  all 
its  predecessors.  Dryden  regards  as  not  seriously  dis- 
putable the  opinion  "  that  the  sweetness  of  English 
verse  was  never  understood  or  practised  by  our 
fathers."  ^  Cowley  could  see  nothing  at  all  in  Chau- 
cer's poetry. 2  Dryden  heartily  admired  it,  and,  as  we 
have  seen,  praised  its  matter  admirably;  but  of  its 
exquisite  manner  and  movement  all  he  can  find  to  say 
is  that  "  there  is  the  rude  sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune 
in  it,  which  is  natural  and  pleasing,  though  not  per- 
fect.'' ^  Addison,  wishing  to  praise  Chaucer's  nmnbers, 
compares  them  with  Dryden's  ovm.  And  all  through 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  down  even  into  our  o^^^l 
times,  the  stereotyped  phrase  of  approbation  for  good 
verse  found  in  our  early  poetry  has  been,  that  it  even 
approached  the  verse  of  Dryden,  Addison,  Pope,  and 
Johnson. 

Are  Dryden  and  Pope  poetical  classics  ?  Is  the  his- 
toric estimate,  which  represents  them  as  such,  and 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  75 

which  has  been  so  long  established  that  it  cannot 
easily  give  way,  the  real  estimate  ?  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,!  ag  jg  ^^11  known,  denied  it ;  but  the  au- 
thority of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  does  not  weigh 
much  with  the  young  generation,  and  there  are  many 
signs  to  show  that  the  eighteenth  century  and  its 
judgments  are  coming  into  favor  again.  Are  the  fa- 
vorite poets  of  the  eighteenth  century  classics  ? 

It  is  impossible  within  my  present  limits  to  discuss 
the  question  fuUy.  And  what  man  of  letters  would 
not  shrink  from  seeming  to  dispose  dictatorially  of 
the  claims  of  two  men  who  are,  at  any  rate,  such 
masters  in  letters  as  Dryden  and  Pope  ;  two  men  of 
such  admirable  talent,  both  of  them,  and  one  of  them, 
Dryden,  a  man,  on  all  sides,  of  such  energetic  and 
genial  power?  And  yet,  if  we  are  to  gain  the  full 
benefit  from  poetry,  we  must  have  the  real  estimate 
of  it.  I  cast  about  for  some  mode  of  arriving,  in  the 
present  case,  at  such  an  estimate  without  offence.  And 
perhaps  the  best  way  is  to  begin,  as  it  is  easy  to  begin, 
with  cordial  praise. 

When  we  find  Chapman,  the  Elizabethan  translator 
of  Homer,  expressing  himseK  in  his  preface  thus  : 
"  Though  truth  in  her  very  nakedness  sits  in  so  deep 
a  pit,  that  from  Gades  to  Aurora  and  Ganges  few 
eyes  can  sound  her,  I  hope  yet  those  few  here  will  so 
discover  and  confirm  that,  the  date  being  out  of  her 
darkness  in  this  morning  of  our  poet,  he  shall  now 
gird  his  temples  with  the  sun,"  —  we  pronounce  that 
such  a  prose  is  intolerable.  When  we  find  Milton 
writing :  "  And  long  it  was  not  after,  when  I  was  con- 
firmed in  this  opinion,  that  he,  who  would  not  be  frus- 
trate of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable 
things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem,"  ^  —  we  pro- 
nounce that  such  a  prose  has  its  own  grandeur,  but 


76  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

that  it  Is  obsolete  and  inconvenient.  But  when  we  find 
Dryden  telling  us  :  "  What  Virgil  wrote  in  the  vigor 
of  his  age,  in  plenty  and  at  ease,  I  have  undertaken 
to  translate  in  my  declining  years  ;  struggling  with 
wants,  oppressed  with  sickness,  curbed  in  my  genius, 
liable  to  be  misconstrued  in  all  I  write,"  ^  —  then  we 
exclaim  that  here  at  last  we  have  the  true  English 
prose,  a  prose  such  as  we  would  all  gladly  use  if  we  only 
knew  how.  Yet  Dryden  was  Milton's  contemporary. 

But  after  the  Restoration  the  time  had  come  when 
our  nation  felt  the  imperious  need  of  a  fit  prose.  So, 
too,  the  time  had  likewise  come  when  our  nation  felt 
the  imperious  need  of  freeing  itself  from  the  absorb- 
ing preoccupation  which  religion  in  the  Puritan  age 
had  exercised.  It  was  impossible  that  this  freedom 
should  be  bi'ought  about  without  some  negative  excess, 
without  some  neglect  and  impairment  of  the  religious 
life  of  the  soul ;  and  the  spiritual  history  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  shows  us  that  the  freedom  was  not 
achieved  without  them.  Still,  the  freedom  was  achieved; 
the  preoccupation,  an  undoubtedly  baneful  and  re- 
tarding one  if  it  had  continued,  was  got  rid  of.  And 
as  with  religion  amongst  us  at  that  period,  so  it  was 
also  with  letters.  A  fit  prose  was  a  necessity ;  but  it 
was  impossible  that  a  fit  prose  should  establish  itself 
amongst  us  without  some  touch  of  frost  to  the  imagi- 
native life  of  the  soul.  The  needful  qualities  for  a  fit 
prose  are  regularity,  uniformity,  precision,  balance. 
The  men  of  letters,  whose  destiny  it  may  be  to  bring 
their  nation  to  the  attainment  of  a  fit  prose,  must  of 
necessity,  whether  they  work  in  prose  or  in  verse,  give 
a  predominating,  an  almost  exclusive  attention  to  the 
qualities  of  regularity,  uniformity,  precision,  balance. 
But  an  almost  exclusive  attention  to  these  qualities 
involves  some  repression  and  silencing  of  poetry. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  77 

We  are  to  regard  Dryden  as  the  puissant  and  glo- 
rious founder,  Pope  as  the  splendid  high  priest,  of  our 
age  of  prose  and  reason,  of  our  excellent  and  indis- 
pensable eighteenth  century.  For  the  purposes  of  their 
mission  and  destiny  their  poetry,  like  their  prose,  is 
admirable.  Do  you  ask  me  whether  Dryden's  verse, 
take  it  almost  where  you  will,  is  not  good  ? 

"  A  milk-white  Hind,  immortal  and  unchanged, 
Fed  on  the  lawns  and  in  the  forest  ranged."  ^ 

I  answer :  Admirable  for  the  purposes  of  the  inaugu- 
rator  of  an  age  of  prose  and  reason.  Do  you  ask  me 
whether  Pope's  verse,  take  it  almost  where  you  will,  is 
not  good  ? 

"To  Hounslow  Heath  I  point,  and  Banstead  Down  ;  I'J^-'P^^^ 

Thence  comes  your  mutton,  and  these  chicks  my  own.^"  ?^ ,  .  . 

I  answer :  Admirable  for  the  purposes  of  the  high 
priest  of  an  age  of  prose  and  reason.  But  do  you  ask 
me  whether  such  verse  proceeds  from  men  with  an 
adequate  poetic  criticism  of  life,  from  men  whose  criti- 
cism of  life  has  a  high  seriousness,  or  even,  without 
that  high  seriousness,  has  poetic  largeness,  freedom, 
insight,  benignity  ?  Do  you  ask  me  whether  the  appli- 
cation of  ideas  to  life  in  the  verse  of  these  men,  often 
a  powerful  application,  no  doubt,  is  a  powerful  poetic 
application  ?  Do  you  ask  me  whether  the  poetry  of 
these  men  has  either  the  matter  or  the  inseparable 
manner  of  such  an  adequate  poetic  criticism  ;  whether 
it  has  the  accent  of 

"  Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile  .  .  ." 


rV^ 


'•rA 


or  of 
or  of 


"  And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome 


"  O  martyr  souded  in  virginitee  !  " 

I  answer  :  It  has  not  and  cannot  have  them ;  it  is  the 
poetry  of  the  builders  of  an  age  of  prose  and  reason. 


78  MATTHEW  AKNOLD 

Though  they  may  write  in  verse,  though  they  may  in 
a  certain  sense  be  masters  of  the  art  of  versification, 
Dryden  and  Pope  are  not  classics  of  our  poetry,  they 
are  classics  of  our  prose. 

Gray  is  our  poetical  classic  of  that  literature  and 
age  ;  the  position  of  Gray  is  singular,  and  demands  a 
word  of  notice  here.  He  has  not  the  volume  or  the 
power  of  poets  who,  coming  in  times  more  favorable, 
have  attained  to  an  independent  criticism  of  life.  But 
he  lived  with  the  great  poets,  he  lived,  above  all,  with 
the  Greeks,  through  perpetually  studying  and  enjoy- 
ing them ;  and  he  caught  their  poetic  point  of  view 
for  regarding  life,  caught  their  poetic  manner.  The 
point  of  view  and  the  manner  are  not  self-sprung  in 
him,  he  caught  them  of  others ;  and  he  had  not  the 
free  and  abundant  use  of  them.  But  whereas  Addison 
and  Pope  never  had  the  use  of  them.  Gray  had  the  use 
of  them  at  times.  He  is  the  scantiest  and  frailest  of 
classics  in  our  poetry,  but  he  is  a  classic. 

And  now,  after  Gray,  we  are  met,  as  we  draw 
towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  we  are  met 
by  the  great  name  of  Burns.  AYe  enter  now  on  times 
where  the  personal  estimate  of  poets  begins  to  be  rife, 
and  where  the  real  estimate  of  them  is  not  reached 
without  difficulty.  But  in  spite  of  the  disturbing  pres- 
sures of  personal  partiality,  of  national  partiality,  let 
us  try  to  reach  a  real  estimate  of  the  poetry  of  Burns. 
By  his  English  poetry  Burns  in  general  belongs  to 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  has  little  importance  for 
us. 

"  Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distaiu'd  with  crimes, 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times  ; 
View  nnsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way; 
While  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong  ! "  ^ 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  79 

Evidently  this  is  not  the  real  Burns,  or  his  name  and 
fame  would  have  disappeared  long  ago.  Nor  is  Clar- 
inda's^  love-poet,  Sylvander,  the  real  Burns  either. 
But  he  tells  us  himself :  "  These  English  songs  gravel 
me  to  death.  I  have  not  the  command  of  the  language 
that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue.  In  fact,  I  think  that 
my  ideas  are  more  barren  in  English  than  in  Scotch. 
I  have  been  at  Duncan  Gray  to  dress  it  in  English, 
but  all  I  can  do  is  desperately  stupid."  ^  We  English 
turn  naturally,  in  Burns,  to  the  poems  in  our  own  lan- 
guage, because  we  can  read  them  easily ;  but  in  those 
poems  we  have  not  the  real  Burns. 

The  real  Burns  is  of  course  in  his  Scotch  poems. 
Let  us  boldly  say  that  of  much  of  this  poetry,  a  poetry 
dealing  perpetually  with  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion, 
and  Scotch  manners,  a  Scotchman's  estimate  is  apt  to 
be  personal.  A  Scotchman  is  used  to  this  world  of 
Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners ; 
he  has  a  tenderness  for  it ;  he  meets  its  poet  half  way. 
In  this  tender  mood  he  reads  pieces  like  the  Holy  Fair 
or  Halloween.  But  this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch 
religion,  and  Scotch  manners  is  against  a  poet,  not  for 
him,  when  it  is  not  a  partial  countryman  who  reads 
him ;  for  in  itself  it  is  not  a  beautiful  world,  and  no 
one  can  deny  that  it  is  of  advantage  to  a  poet  to  deal 
with  a  beautiful  world.  Burns's  world  of  Scotch  drink, 
Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners,  is  often  a  harsh, 
a  sordid,  a  repulsive  world ;  even  the  world  of  his 
Cotter^s  Saturday  Night  is  not  a  beautiful  world. 
No  doubt  a  poet's  criticism  of  life  may  have  such 
truth  and  power  that  it  triumphs  over  its  world  and 
delights  us.  Burns  may  triumph  over  his  world, 
often  he  does  triumph  over  his  world,  but  let  us 
observe  how  and  where.  Burns  is  the  first  case  we 
have  had  where  the  bias  of  the  personal  estimate 


80  ]VIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

tends  to  mislead ;  let  us  look  at  him  closely,  he  can 
bear  it. 

Many  of  his  admirers  will  tell  us  that  we  have 
Burns,  convivial,  genuine,  delightful,  here  — 

"  Leeze  me  on  drink  !  it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  school  or  college  ; 
It  kindles  wit,  it  wankeus  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be  't  whisky  gill  or  penny  wheep 

Or  ony  stronger  potion. 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 
To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day."  ^ 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  Burns, 
and  it  is  unsatisfactory,  not  because  it  is  bacchanalian 
poetry,  but  because  it  has  not  that  accent  of  sincerity 
which  bacchanalian  poetry,  to  do  it  justice,  very  often 
has.  There  is  something  in  it  of  bravado,  something 
which  makes  us  feel  that  we  have  not  the  man  speak- 
ing to  us  with  his  real  voice ;  something,  therefore, 
poetically  unsound. 

With  still  more  confidence  will  his  admirers  tell  us 
that  we  have  the  genuine  Burns,  the  great  poet,  when 
his  strain  asserts  the  independence,  equality,  dignity, 
of  men,  as  in  the  famous  song  For  a'  that  and  a' 
that  — 

"  A  prince  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that  ; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that." 

Here  they  find  his  grand,  genuine  touches ;  and  still 
more,  when  this  puissant  genius,  who  so  often  set 
morality  at  defiance,  falls  moralizing  — 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  81 

"  The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it  ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it. 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing, 
But  och  !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling.  "^ 

Or  in  a  higher  strain  — 

"Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone  ; 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias. 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted."  ^ 

Or  in  a  better  strain  yet,  a  strain,  his  admirers  will 

say,  unsurpassable — ■ 

"  To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime 
To  weans  and  wife. 
That 's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life."  » 

There  is  criticism  of  life  for  you,  the  admirers  of  Burns 
will  say  to  us  ;  there  is  the  application  of  ideas  to  life  ! 
There  is,  undoubtedly.  The  doctrine  of  the  last-quoted 
lines  coincides  almost  exactly  with  what  was  the  aim 
and  end,  Xenophon  tells  us,  of  all  the  teaching  of 
Socrates.  And  the  application  is  a  powerful  one ; 
made  by  a  man  of  vigorous  understanding,  and  (need 
I  say  ?)  a  master  of  language. 

But  for  supreme  poetical  success  more  is  required 
than  the  powerful  application  of  ideas  to  life ;  it  must 
be  an  application  under  the  conditions  fixed  by  the 
laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty.  Those  laws 
fix  as  an  essential  condition,  in  the  poet's  treatment  of 
such  matters  as  are  here  in  question,  high  seriousness; 
TT— the   hio'h  seriousness  which  comes   from  absolute 


82  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

sincerity.  The  accent  of  higli  seriousness,  born  of  ab- 
solute sincerity,  is  what  gives  to  such  verse  as 

"  In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace  .  .  ." 

to  such  criticism  of  life  as  Dante's,  its  power.  Is  this 
accent  felt  in  the  passages  which  I  have  been  quoting 
from  Burns  ?  Surely  not ;  surely,  if  our  sense  is 
quick,  we  must  perceive  that  we  have  not  in  those 
passages  a  voice  from  the  very  inmost  soul  of  the  gen- 
uine Burns ;  he  is  not  speaking  to  us  from  these 
depths,  he  is  more  or  less  preaching.  And  the 
compensation  for  admiring  such  passages  less,  for 
missing  the  perfect  poetic  accent  in  them,  will  be  that 
we  shall  admire  more  the  poetry  where  that  accent  is 
found. 

No;  Burns,  like  Chaucer,  comes  short  of  the  high 
seriousness  of  the  great  classics,  and  the  virtue  of  mat- 
ter and  manner  which  goes  with  that  high  seriousness 
is  wanting  to  his  work.  At  moments  he  touches  it  in 
a  prof oimd  and  passionate  melancholy,  as  in  those  four 
immortal  lines  taken  by  Bj-ron  as  a  motto  for  The 
Bride  of  Ahydos,  but  which  have  in  them  a  depth  of 
poetic  quality  such  as  resides  in  no  verse  of  Byron's 

own  — 

"  Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met,  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 

But  a  whole  poem  of  that  quality  Burns  cannot  make  ; 
the  rest,  in  the  Farewell  to  Xancy,  is  verbiage. 

We  arrive  best  at  the  real  estimate  of  Burns,  I 
think,  by  conceiving  his  work  as  having  truth  of  mat- 
ter and  truth  of  manner,  but  not  the  accent  or  the 
poetic  virtue  of  the  highest  masters.  His  genuine  criti- 
cism of  life,  when  the  sheer  poet  in  him  speaks,  is 
ironic ;  it  is  not  — 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  83 

"  Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here  firm  I  rest,  they  must  be  best 
Because  they  are  Thy  will  !  "  ^ 

It  is  far  rather :  Whistle  owre  the  lave  ot !  Yet  we 
may  say  of  him  as  of  Chaucer,  that  of  life  and  the 
world,  as  they  come  before  him,  his  view  is  large,  free, 
shrewd,  benignant,  —  truly  poetic,  therefore ;  and  his 
manner  of  rendering  what  he  sees  is  to  match.  But  we 
must  note,  at  the  same  time,  his  great  difference  from 
Chaucer.  The  freedom  of  Chaucer  is  heightened,  in 
Burns,  by  a  fiery,  reckless  energy ;  the  benignity  of 
Chaucer  deepens,  in  Burns,  into  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  the  pathos  of  things ;  —  of  the  pathos  of 
human  nature,  the  pathos,  also,  of  non-human  nature. 
Instead  of  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer's  manner,  the  man- 
ner of  Burns  has  spring,  bounding  swiftness.  Burns 
is  by  far  the  greater  force,  though  he  has  perhaps  less 
charm.  The  world  of  Chaucer  is  fairer,  richer,  more 
significant  than  that  of  Burns  ;  but  when  the  largeness 
and  freedom  of  Burns  get  full  sweep,  as  in  Tarn  o' 
Shanter,  or  still  more  in  that  puissant  and  splendid 
production.  The  Jolly  Beggars,  his  world  may  be  what 
it  will,  his  poetic  genius  triumphs  over  it.  In  the  world 
of  The  Jolly  Beggars  there  is  more  than  hideousness 
and  squalor,  there  is  bestiality ;  yet  the  piece  is  a  su- 
perb poetic  success.  It  has  a  breadth,  truth,  and  power 
which  make  the  famous  scene  in  Auerbach's  Cellar, 
of  Goethe's  Faust,  seem  artificial  and  tame  beside  it, 
and  which  are  only  matched  by  Shakespeare  and  Aris- 
tophanes. 

Here,  where  his  largeness  and  freedom  serve  him  so 
admirably,  and  also  in  those  poems  and  songs  where 
to  shrewdness  he  adds  infinite  archness  and  wit,  and 
to  benignity  infinite  pathos,  where  his  manner  is  flaw- 


84  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

less,  and  a  perfect  poetic  whole  is  the  result,  —  in 
things  like  the  address  to  the  mouse  whose  home  he 
had  ruined,  in  things  like  Duncan  Gray^  Tarn  Glen^ 
Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you  my  Lad.,  Auld  Lang 
Syne  (this  list  might  be  made  much  longer),  — here 
we  have  the  genuine  Burns,  of  whom  the  real  estimate 
must  be  high  indeed.  Not  a  classic,  nor  with  the  excel- 
lent (TTrovSaioTrj'i  of  the  great  classics,  nor  with  a  verse 
rising  to  a  criticism  of  life  and  a  virtue  like  theirs ; 
but  a  poet  with  thorough  truth  of  substance  and  an 
answering  truth  of  style,  giving  us  a  poetry  sound  to 
the  core.  We  all  of  us  have  a  leaning  towards  the 
pathetic,  and  may  be  inclined  perhaps  to  prize  Burns 
most  for  his  touches  of  piercing,  sometimes  almost 
intolerable,  pathos  ;  for  verse  like  — 

"  We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
From  moriiin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin  auld  lang  syne  ..." 

where  he  is  as  lovely  as  he  is  sound.  But  perhaps  it  is 
by  the  perfection  of  soundness  of  his  lighter  and  archer 
masterpieces  that  he  is  poetically  most  wholesome  for 
us.  For  the  votary  misled  by  a  personal  estimate  of 
Shelley,  as  so  many  of  us  have  been,  are,  and  will  be, 
—  of  that  beautiful  spirit  building  his  many-colored 
haze  of  words  and  images 

"  Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane  "  —  ^ 

Tio  contact  can  be  wholesomer  than  the  contact  with 

Burns  at  his  archest  and  soundest.    Side  by  side  with 

the 

"  On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire, 
But  the  Earth  has  just  wliispered  a  warning 

That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire  .  .  ."  ^ 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  85 

of  Prometheus    Unhound,  how   salutary,   how   very 
salutary,  to  place  this  from  Tam  Glen  — 

"  My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men  ; 
They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me  ; 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen  ?  " 

But  we  enter  on  burning  ground  as  we  approach 
the  poetry  of  times  so  near  to  us  —  poetry  like  that 
of  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Wordsworth  —  of  which  the 
estimates  are  so  often  not  only  personal,  but  personal 
with  passion.  For  my  purpose,  it  is  enough  to  have 
taken  the  single  case  of  Burns,  the  first  poet  we  come 
to  of  whose  work  the  estimate  formed  is  evidently  apt 
to  be  personal,  and  to  have  suggested  how  we  may 
proceed,  using  the  poetry  of  the  great  classics  as  a 
sort  of  touchstone,  to  correct  this  estimate,  as  we  had 
previously  corrected  by  the  same  means  the  historic 
estimate  where  we  met  with  it.  A  collection  like  the 
present,  with  its  succession  of  celebrated  names  and 
celebrated  poems,  offers  a  good  opportunity  to  us  for 
resolutely  endeavoring  to  make  our  estimates  of  poetry 
real.  I  have  sought  to  point  out  a  method  which  will 
help  us  in  making  them  so,  and  to  exhibit  it  in  use  so 
far  as  to  put  any  one  who  likes  in  a  way  of  applying 
it  for  himself. 

At  any  rate  the  end  to  which  the  method  and  the 
estimate  are  designed  to  lead,  and  from  leading  to 
which,  if  they  do  lead  to  it,  they  get  their  whole  value, 
■ —  the  benefit  of  being  able  clearly  to  feel  and  deeply 
to  enjoy  the  best,  the  truly  classic,  in  poetry,  —  is  an 
end,  let  me  say  it  once  more  at  parting,  of  supreme 
importance.  We  are  often  told  that  an  era  is  opening 
in  which  we  are  to  see  multitudes  of  a  common  sort  of 
readers,  and  masses  of  a  common  sort  of  literature ; 
that  such  readers  do  not  want  and  could  not  relish 


86  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

anything  better  than  such  literature,  and  that  to  pro- 
vide it  is  becoming  a  vast  and  profitable  industry. 
Even  if  good  literature  entirely  lost  currency  with  the 
world,  it  would  still  be  abundantly  worth  while  to 
continue  to  enjoy  it  by  oneself.  But  it  never  will  lose 
currency  with  the  woi-ld,  in  spite  of  momentary  ap- 
pearances ;  it  never  will  lose  supremacy.  Currency 
and  supremacy  are  insured  to  it,  not  indeed  by  the 
world's  deliberate  and  conscious  choice,  but  by  some- 
thing far  deeper,  —  by  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion in  humanity. 


LITERATURE   AND   SCIENCE  i 

Practical  people  talk  with  a  smile  of  Plato  and 
of  his  absolute  ideas  ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that 
Plato's  ideas  do  often  seem  unpractical  and  imprac- 
ticable, and  especially  when  one  views  them  in  con- 
nection with  the  life  of  a  great  work-a-day  world  like 
the  United  States.  The  necessary  staple  of  the  life  of 
such  a  world  Plato  regards  with  disdain ;  handicraft 
and  trade  and  the  working  professions  he  regards  with 
disdain  ;  but  what  becomes  of  the  life  of  an  industrial 
modern  community  if  you  take  handicraft  and  trade 
and  the  working  professions  out  of  it  ?  The  base  me- 
chanic arts  and  handicrafts,  says  Plato,  bring  about  a 
natural  weakness  in  the  principle  of  excellence  in  a 
man,  so  that  he  cannot  govern  the  ignoble  growths  in 
him,  but  nurses  them,  and  cannot  understand  foster- 
ing any  other.  Those  who  exercise  such  arts  and 
trades,  as  they  have  their  bodies,  he  says,  marred  by 
their  vulgar  businesses,  so  they  have  their  souls,  too, 
bowed  and  broken  by  them.  And  if  one  of  these  un- 
comely people  has  a  mind  to  seek  self-culture  and 
philosophy,  Plato  compares  him  to  a  bald  little  tinker,^ 
who  has  scraped  together  money,  and  has  got  his  re- 
lease from  service,  and  has  had  a  bath,  and  bought  a 
new  coat,  and  is  rigged  out  like  a  bridegroom  about 
to  marry  the  daughter  of  his  master  who  has  fallen 
into  poor  and  helpless  estate. 

Nor  do  the  working  professions  fare  any  better  than 
trade  at  the  hands  of  Plato.  He  draws  for  us  an  in- 
imitable picture  of  the  working  lawyer,^  and  of  his 
life  of  bondage ;  he  shows  how  this  bondage  from  his 


88  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

youth  up  has  stunted  and  warped  him,  and  made  him 
small  and  crooked  of  soul,  encompassing  him  with  dif- 
ficulties which  he  is  not  man  enough  to  rely  on  justice 
and  truth  as  means  to  encounter,  but  has  recourse,  for 
help  out  of  them,  to  falsehood  and  wrong.  And  so, 
says  Plato,  this  poor  creature  is  bent  and  broken,  and 
grows  up  from  boy  to  man  without  a  particle  of  sound- 
ness in  him,  although  exceedingly  smart  and  clever  in 
his  own  esteem. 

One  cannot  refuse  to  admire  the  artist  who  draws 
these  pictures.  But  we  say  to  ourselves  that  his  ideas 
show  the  influence  of  a  primitive  and  obsolete  order  of 
things,  when  the  warrior  caste  and  the  priestly  caste 
were  alone  in  honor,  and  the  humble  work  of  the 
world  was  done  by  slaves.  We  have  now  changed  aU 
that :  the  modern  majesty^  consists  in  work,  as  Emer- 
son declares  ;  and  in  work,  we  may  add,  principally  of 
such  plain  and  dusty  kind  as  the  work  of  cultivators 
of  the  ground,  handicraftsmen,  men  of  trade  and  busi- 
ness, men  of  the  working  professions.  Above  all  is 
this  true  in  a  great  industrious  community  such  as 
that  of  the  United  States. 

Now  education,  many  people  go  on  to  say,  is  still 
mainly  governed  by  the  ideas  of  men  like  Plato,  who 
lived  when  the  warrior  caste  and  the  priestly  or  phil- 
osophical class  were  alone  in  honor,  and  the  really 
useful  part  of  the  community  were  slaves.  It  is  an 
education  fitted  for  persons  of  leisure  in  such  a  com- 
munity. This  education  passed  from  Greece  and  Rome 
to  the  feudal  communities  of  Europe,  where  also  the 
warrior  caste  and  the  priestly  caste  were  alone  held  in 
honor,  and  where  the  really  useful  and  working  part 
of  the  community,  though  not  nominally  slaves  as  in 
the  pagan  world,  were  practically  not  much  better  off 
than  slaves,  and  not  more  seriously  regarded.  And 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  89 

how  aLsurcl  it  is,  people  end  by  saying,  to  inflict  tliis 
education  upon  an  industrious  modern  community, 
where  very  few  indeed  are  persons  of  leisure,  and  the 
mass  to  be  considered  has  not  leisure,  but  is  bound,  for 
its  own  great  good,  and  for  the  great  good  of  the 
world  at  large,  to  plain  labor  and  to  industrial  pur- 
suits, and  the  education  in  question  tends  necessarily 
to  make  men  dissatisfied  with  these  pursuits  and  un- 
fitted for  them ! 

That  is  what  is  said.  So  far  I  must  defend  Plato, 
as  to  plead  that  his  view  of  education  and  studies  is 
in  the  general,  as  it  seems  to  me,  sound  enough,  and 
fitted  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  whatever  their 
pursuits  may  be.  "  An  intelligent  man,"  says  Plato, 
"  will  prize  those  studies  which  result  in  his  soul  get- 
ting soberness,  righteousness,  and  wisdom,  and  will 
less  value  the  others."  ^  I  cannot  consider  that  a  bad 
description  of  the  aim  of  education,  and  of  the  motives 
which  shoidd  govern  us  in  the  choice  of  studies, 
whether  we  are  preparing  ourselves  for  a  hereditary 
seat  in  the  English  House  of  Lords  or  for  the  pork 
trade  in  Chicago. 

Still  I  admit  that  Plato's  world  was  not  ours,  that 
his  scorn  of  trade  and  handicraft  is  fantastic,  that  he 
had  no  conception  of  a  great  industrial  community 
such  as  that  of  the  United  States,  and  that  such  a  com- 
munity must  and  will  shape  its  education  to  suit  its 
own  needs.  If  the  usual  education  handed  down  to  it 
from  the  past  does  not  suit  it,  it  will  certainly  before 
long  drop  this  and  try  another.  The  usual  education 
in  the  past  has  been  mainly  literary.  The  question  is 
whether  the  studies  which  were  long  supposed  to  be 
the  best  for  all  of  us  are  practically  the  best  now ; 
whether  others  are  not  better.  The  tyranny  of  the 
past,  many  think,  weighs  on  us  injuriously  in  the  pre- 


90  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

dominance  given  to  letters  in  education.  The  question 
is  raised  whether,  to  meet  the  needs  of  our  modern 
life,  the  predominance  ought  not  now  to  pass  from 
letters  to  science ;  and  naturally  the  question  is  no- 
where raised  with  more  energy  than  here  in  the 
United  States.  The  design  of  abasing  what  is  called 
"  mere  literary  instruction  and  education,"  and  of 
exalting  what  is  called  "  sound,  extensive,  and  prac- 
tical scientific  knowledge,"  is,  in  this  intensely  modern 
world  of  the  United  States,  even  more  perhaps  than 
in  Europe,  a  very  popular  design,  and  makes  great 
and  rapid  progress. 

I  am  going  to  ask  whether  the  present  movement 
for  ousting  letters  from  their  old  predominance  in 
education,  and  for  transferring  the  predominance  in 
education  to  the  natural  sciences,  whether  this  brisk 
and  flourishing  movement  ought  to  prevail,  and  whether 
it  is  likely  that  in  the  end  it  really  will  prevail.  An  ob- 
jection may  be  raised  which  I  will  anticipate.  My  own 
studies  have  been  almost  wholly  in  letters,  and  my 
visits  to  the  field  of  the  natural  sciences  have  been  very 
slight  and  inadequate,  although  those  sciences  have 
always  strongly  moved  my  curiosity.  A  man  of  letters, 
it  will  perhaps  be  said,  is  not  competent  to  discuss  the 
comparative  merits  of  letters  and  natural  science  as 
means  of  education.  To  this  objection  I  reply,  first  of 
aU,  that  his  incompetence,  if  he  attempts  the  discus- 
sion but  is  really  incompetent  for  it,  will  be  abun- 
dantly visible  ;  nobody  will  be  taken  in  ;  he  will  have 
plenty  of  sharp  observers  and  critics  to  save  mankind 
from  that  danger.  But  the  line  I  am  going  to  follow  is, 
as  you  will  soon  discover,  so  extremely  simple,  that 
perhaps  it  may  be  followed  without  failure  even  by 
one  who  for  a  more  ambitious  line  of  discussion  would 
be  quite  incompetent. 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  91 

Some  of  you  may  possibly  remember  a  plirase  of  mine 
which  has  been  the  object  of  a  good  deal  of  comment ; 
an  observation  to  the  effect  that  in  our  culture,  the  aim 
being  to  know  ourselves  and  the  worlds  we  have,  as 
the  means  to  this  end,  to  know  the  best  which  has  been  '1  L 
thought  and  said  in  the  worlds  A  man  of  science,?^  ^  ^ 
who  is  also  an  excellent  writer 'and  the  very  prince  of 
debaters,  Professor  Huxley,  in  a  discourse  ^  at  the 
opening  of  Sir  Josiah  Mason's  college  at  Birmingham, 
laying  hold  of  this  phrase,  expanded  it  by  quoting 
some  more  words  of  mine,  which  are  these :  "  The 
civilized  world  is  to  be  regarded  as  now  being,  for 
intellectual  and  spiritual  purposes,  one  great  confed- 
eration, bound  to  a  joint  action  and  working  to  a 
common  result ;  and  whose  members  have  for  their 
proper  outfit  a  knowledge  of  Greek,  Roman,  and  East- 
ern antiquity,  and  of  one  another.  Special  local  and 
temporary  advantages  being  put  out  of  account,  that 
modern  nation  will  in  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
sphere  make  most  progress,  which  most  thoroughly  car- 
ries out  this  programme."^     • 

Now  on  my  phrase,  thus  enlarged.  Professor  Hux- 
ley remarks  that  when  I  speak  of  the  above-mentioned 
knowledge  as  enabling  us  to  know  ourselves  and  the 
world,  I  assert  literature  to  contain  the  materials 
which  suffice  for  thus  making  us  know  ourselves  and 
the  world.  But  it  is  not  by  any  means  clear,  says  he, 
that  after  having  learnt  all  which  ancient  and  modern 
literatures  have  to  tell  us,  we  have  laid  a  sufficiently 
broad  and  deep  foundation  for  that  criticism  of  life, 
that  knowledge  of  ourselves  and  the  world,  which  con- 
stitutes culture.  On  the  contrary,  Professor  Huxley 
declares  that  he  finds  himself  "  wholly  unable  to  admit 
that  either  nations  or  individuals  will  really  advance, 
if  their  outfit  draws  nothing  from  the  stores  of  physical 


92  IMATTHEW  ARNOLD 

science.  An  army  without  weapons  of  precision,  and 
with  no  particular  base  of  operations,  might  more 
hopefully  enter  upon  a  campaign  on  the  Rhine,  than 
a  man,  devoid  of  a  knowledge  of  what  physical  science 
has  done  in  the  last  century,  upon  a  criticism  of  life." 

This  shows  how  needful  it  is  for  those  who  are  to 
discuss  any  matter  together,  to  have  a  common  under- 
standing as  to  the  sense  of  the  terms  they  employ,  — 
how  needful,  and  how  difficult.  What  Professor  Hux- 
ley says,  implies  just  the  reproach  which  is  so  often 
brought  against  the  study  of  belles  lettres,  as  they  are 
called :  that  the  study  is  an  elegant  one,  but  slight  and 
ineffectual;  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  and 
other  ornamental  things,  of  little  use  for  any  one 
whose  object  is  to  get  at  truth,  and  to  be  a  practical 
man.  So,  too,  M.  Renan^  talks  of  the  "superficial 
humanism  "  of  a  school-course  which  treats  us  as  if  we 
were  all  going  to  be  poets,  writers,  preachers,  orators, 
and  he  opposes  this  humanism  to  positive  science,  or 
the  critical  search  after  truth.  And  there  is  always  a 
tendency  in  those  who  are  remonstrating  against  the 
predominance  of  letters  in  education,  to  understand 
by  letters  belles  lettres,  and  by  belles  lettres  a  su- 
perficial humanism  the  opposite  of  science  or  true 
knowledge. 

But  when  we  talk  of  knowing  Greek  and  Roman 
anticjuity,  for  instance,  which  is  the  knowledge  people 
have  called  the  humanities,  I  for  my  part  mean  a 
knowledge  which  is  something  more  than  a  superficial 
humanism,  mainly  decorative.  "I  call  all  teaching 
scientific,''  says  Wolf,  the  critic  of  Homer,  "  which  is 
systematically  laid  out  and  followed  up  to  its  origi- 
nal sources.  For  example :  a  knowledge  of  classical 
antiquity  is  scientific  when  the  remains  of  classical  an- 
tiquity are  correctly  studied  in  the  original  languages." 


OJA 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  93 


There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Wolf  ^  is  perfectly  right ;  | 
that  all  learning  is  scientific  which  is  systematically 
laid  out  and  followed  up  to  its  original  sources,  and 
that  9,  genuine  humanism  is  scientific. 

When  I  speak  of  knowing  Greek  and  Roman  an- 
tiquity, therefore,  as  a  help  to  knowing  ourselves  and 
the  world,  I  mean  more  than  a  knowledge  of  so  much 
vocabulary,  so  much  grammar,  so  many  portions  of 
authors  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  I  mean 
knowing  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  their  life  and 
genius,  and  what  they  were  and  did  in  the  world  ; 
what  we  get  from  them,  and  what  is  its  value.  That, 
at  least,  is  the  ideal ;  and  when  we  talk  of  endeavor- 
ing to  know  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity,  as  a  help  to 
knowing  ourselves  and  the  world,  we  mean  endeavor- 
ing so  to  know  them  as  to  satisfy  this  ideal,  however 
much  we  may  still  fall  short  of  it. 

The  same  also  as  to  knowing  our  own  and  other 
modern  nations,  with  the  like  aim  of  getting  to  un- 
derstand ourselves  and  the  world.  To  know  the  best 
that  has  been  thought  and  said  by  the  modern  nations, 
is  to  know,  says  Professor  Huxley,  "only  what  modern 
literatures  have  to  tell  us ;  it  is  the  criticism  of  life  con- 
tained in  modern  literature."  And  yet  "  the  distinctive 
character  of  our  times,"  he  urges,  "lies  in  the  vast  and 
constantly  increasing  part  which  is  played  by  natural 
knowledge."  And  how,  therefore,  can  a  man,  devoid 
of  knowledge  of  what  physical  science  has  done  in 
the  last  century,  enter  hopefully  upon  a  criticism  of 
modern  life  ? 

Let  us,  I  say,  be  agreed  about  the  meaning  of  the 
terms  we  are  using.  I  talk  of  knowing  the  best  which 
has  been  thought  and  uttered  in  the  world  ;  Pi-ofessor 
Huxley  says  this  means  knowing  literature.  Liter- 
ature is  a  large  word ;  it  may  mean  everything  written 


94  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

with  letters  or  printed  in  a  book.  Euclid's  Elements 
and  Newton's  Principia  are  thus  literature.  All  knowl- 
edge that  reaches  us  through  books  is  literature.  But 
by  literature  Professor  Huxley  means  belles  lettres. 
He  means  to  make  me  say,  that  knowing  the  best 
which  has  been  thought  and  said  by  the  modern  na^ 
tions  is  knowing  their  belles  lettres  and  no  more.  And 
this  is  no  sufficient  equipment,  he  argues,  for  a  criti- 
cism of  modern  life.  But  as  I  do  not  mean,  by  know- 
ing ancient  Rome,  knowing  merely  more  or  less  of  Latin 
belles  lettres^  and  taking  no  accoimt  of  Rome's  mili- 
tary, and  political,  and  legal,  and  administrative  work 
in  the  world  ;  and  as,  by  knowing  ancient  Greece,  I  un- 
derstand knowing  her  as  the  giver  of  Greek  art,  and  the 
guide  to  a  free  and  right  use  of  reason  and  to  scientific 
method,  and  the  founder  of  our  mathematics  and  phys- 
ics and  astronomy  and  biology,  —  I  understand  knowing 
her  as  all  this,  and  not  merely  knowing  certain  Greek 
poems,  and  histories,  and  treatises,  and  speeches,  —  so 
as  to  the  knowledge  of  modern  nations  also.  By  know- 
ing modern  nations,  I  mean  not  merely  knowing  their 
belles  lettres^  but  knowing  also  what  has  been  done 
by  such  men  as  Copernicus,  Galileo,  Newton,  Darwin. 
"  Our  ancestors  learned,"  says  Professor  Huxley,  "  that 
the  earth  is  the  centre  of  the  visible  universe,  and  that 
man  is  the  cynosure  of  things  terrestrial ;  and  more 
especially  was  it  inculcated  that  the  course  of  nature 
had  no  fixed  order,  but  that  it  could  be,  and  constantly 
was,  altered."  But  for  us  now,  continues  Professor 
Huxley,  "  the  notions  of  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  the  world  entertained  by  our  forefathers  are  no 
longer  credible.  It  is  very  certain  that  the  earth  is  not 
the  chief  body  in  the  material  universe,  and  that  the 
world  is  not  subordinated  to  man's  use.  It  is  even 
more  certain  that  nature  is  the  expression  of  a  definite 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  95 

order,  with  which  nothing  interferes."  "  And  yet,"  he 
cries,  "  the  purely  classical  education  advocated  by  the 
representatives  of  the  humanists  in  our  day  gives  no 
inklii>g  of  all  this  !  " 

In  due  place  and  time  I  will  just  touch  upon  that 
vexed  question  of  classical  education ;  but  at  present 
the  question  is  as  to  what  is  meant  by  knowing  the 
best  which  modern  nations  have  thought  and  said.  It 
is  not  knowing  their  belles  lettres  merely  which  is 
meant.  To  know  Italian  belles  lettres,  is  not  to  know 
Italy,  and  to  know  English  belles  lettres  is  not  to 
know  England.  Into  knowing  Italy  and  England 
there  comes  a  great  deal  more,  Galileo  and  Newton 
amongst  it.  The  reproach  of  being  a  superficial  hu- 
manism, a  tincture  of  belles  lettres,  may  attach  rightly 
enough  to  some  other  disciplines  ;  but  to  the  particular 
discipline  recommended  when  I  proposed  knowing  the 
best  that  has  been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,  it 
does  not  apply.  In  that  best  I  certainly  include  what 
in  modern  times  has  been  thought  and  said  by  the 
great  observers  and  knowers  of  nature. 

There  is,  therefore,  really  no  question  between  Pro- 
fessor Huxley  and  me  as  to  whether  knowing  the  great 
Results  of  the  modern  scientific  study  of  nature  is  not 
required  as  a  part  of  our  culture,  as  well  as  knowing 
the  products  of  literature  and  art.  But  to  follow  the 
processes  by  which  those  results  are  reached,  ought, 
say  the  friends  of  physical  science,  to  be  made  the 
staple  of  education  for  the  bulk  of  mankind.  And  here 
there  does  arise  a  question  between  those  whom  Pro- 
fessor Huxley  calls  with  playful  sarcasm  "  the  Levites 
of  culture,"  and  those  whom  the  poor  humanist  is 
sometimes  apt  to  regard  as  its  Nebuehadnezzars. 

The  great  results  of  the  scientific  investigation  of 
nature  we  are  agreed  upon  knowing,  but  how  much 


96  aiATTHEW  AENOLD 

of  our  study  are  we  bound  to  give  to  the  processes  by 
which  those  results  are  reached  ?  The  results  have 
their  visible  bearing  on  human  life.  But  all  the  pro- 
cesses, too,  all  the  items  of  fact,  by  which  those  re- 
sults are  reached  and  established,  are  interesting.  All 
knowledge  is  interesting  to  a  wise  man,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  nature  is  interesting  to  all  men.  It  is  very 
interesting  to  know,  that,  from  the  albuminous  white 
of  the  egg,  the  chick  in  the  egg  gets  the  materials  for 
its  flesh,  bones,  blood,  and  feathers  ;  while  from  the 
fatty  yolk  of  the  egg,  it  gets  the  heat  and  energy  which 
enable  it  at  length  to  break  its  shell  and  begin  the 
world.  It  is  less  interesting,  perhaps,  but  still  it  is 
interesting,  to  know  that  when  a  taper  burns,  the  wax 
is  converted  into  carbonic  acid  and  water.  Moreover, 
it  is  quite  true  that  the  habit  of  dealing  with  facts, 
which  is  given  by  the  study  of  nature,  is,  as  the  friends 
of  physical  science  praise  it  for  being,  an  excellent 
discipline.  The  appeal,  in  the  study  of  nature,  is 
constantly  to  observation  and  experiment ;  not  only  is 
it  said  that  the  thing  is  so,  but  we  can  be  made  to  see 
that  it  is  so.  Not  only  does  a  man  tell  us  that  when  a 
taper  burns  the  wax  is  converted  into  carbonic  acid 
and  water,  as  a  man  may  tell  us,  if  he  likes,  that 
Charon  is  punting  his  ferry-boat  on  the  river  Styx, 
or  that  Victor  Hugo  is  a  sublime  poet,  or  Mr.  Glad- 
stone the  most  admirable  of  statesmen ;  but  we  are 
made  to  see  that  the  conversion  into  carbonic  acid  and 
water  does  actually  happen.  This  reality  of  natural 
knowledge  it  is,  which  makes  the  friends  of  physical 
science  contrast  it,  as  a  knowledge  of  things,  with  the 
humanist's  knowledge,  which  is,  say  they,  a  knowl- 
edge of  words.  And  hence  Professor  Huxley  is  moved 
to  lay  it  down  that,  "  for  the  purpose  of  attaining  real 
culture,  an  exclusively  scientific  education  is  at  least 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  97 

as  effectual  as  an  exclusively  literary  education."  And 
a  certain  President  of  the  Section  for  Mechanical 
Science  in  the  British  Association  is,  in  Scripture 
phrase,  "  very  bold,"  and  declares  that  if  a  man,  in  his 
mental  training,  "  has  substituted  literature  and  his- 
tory for  natural  science,  he  has  chosen  the  less  useful 
alternative."  But  whether  we  go  these  lengths  or  not,  we 
must  all  admit  that  in  natural  science  the  habit  gained 
of  dealing  with  facts  is  a  most  valuable  discipline,  and 
that  every  one  should  have  some  experience  of  it. 

More  than  this,  however,  is  demanded  by  the  re- 
formers. It  is  proposed  to  make  the  training  in  natural 
science  the  main  part  of  education,  for  the  great  ma- 
jority of  mankind  at  any  rate.  And  here,  I  confess,  I 
part  company  with  the  friends  of  physical  science,  with 
whom  up  to  this  point  I  have  been  agreeing.  In  dif- 
fering from  them,  however,  I  wish  to  proceed  with  the 
utmost  caution  and  diffidence.  The  smallness  of  my 
own  acquaintance  with  the  disciplines  of  natural  science 
is  ever  before  my  mind,  and  I  am  fearful  of  doing 
these  disciplines  an  injustice.  The  ability  and  pug- 
nacity of  the  partisans  of  natural  science  make  them 
formidable  persons  to  contradict.  The  tone  of  tenta- 
tive inquiry,  which  befits  a  being  of  dim  faculties  and 
bounded  knowledge,  is  the  tone  I  would  wish  to  take 
and  not  to  depart  from.  At  present  it  seems  to  me, 
that  those  who  are  for  giving  to  natural  knowledge, 
as  they  call  it,  the  chief  place  in  the  education  of  the 
majority  of  mankind,  leave  one  important  thing  out 
of  their  account :  the  constitution  of  hunian  nature. 
But  I  put  this  forward  on  the  strength  of  some  facts 
not  at  all  recondite,  very  far  from  it ;  facts  capable 
of  being  stated  in  the  simplest  possible  fashion,  and  to 
which,  if  I  so  state  them,  the  man  of  science  will,  I 
am  sure,  be  willing  to  allow  their  due  weight. 


98  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Deny  the  facts  altogether,  I  think,  he  hardly  can- 
He  can  hardly  deny,  that  when  we  set  ourselves  to 
enumerate  the  powers  which  go  to  the  building  up  of 
human  life,  and  say  that  they  are  the  power  of  con- 
duct, the  power  of  intellect  and  knowledge,  the  power 
of  beauty,  and  the  power  of  social  life  and  manners,  — 
lie  can  hardly  deny  that  this  scheme,  though  drawn 
in  rough  and  plain  lines  enough,  and  not  pretending  to 
scientific  exactness,  does  yet  give  a  fairly  true  repre- 
sentation of  the  matter.  Human  nature  is  built  up  by 
these  powers ;  we  have  the  need  for  them  all.  When 
we  have  rightly  met  and  adjusted  the  claims  of  them 
all,  we  shall  then  be  in  a  fair  way  for  getting  sober- 
ness, and  righteousness  with  wisdom.  This  is  evident 
enough,  and  the  friends  of  physical  science  would 
admit  it. 

But  perhaps  they  may  not  have  sufficiently  observed 
another  thing :  namely,  that  the  several  powers  just 
mentioned  are  not  isolated,  but  there  is,  in  the  gener- 
ality of  mankind,  a  perpetual  tendency  to  jelate  them 
one  to  another  in  divers  ways.  With  one  such  way  of 
relating  them  I  am  particularly  concerned  now.  Fol- 
lowing our  instinct  for  intellect  and  knowledge,  we 
acquire  pieces  of  knowledge  :  and  presently  in  the  gen- 
erality of  men,  there  arises  the  desire  to  relate  these 
pieces  of  knowledge  to  our  sense  for  conduct,  to  our 
sense  for  beauty,  —  and  there  is  weariness  and  dissat- 
isfaction if  the  desire  is  balked.  Now  in  this  desire 
lies,  I  think,  the  strength  of  that  hold  which  letters 
have  upon  us. 

All  knowledge  is,  as  I  said  just  now,  interesting ; 
and  even  items  of  knowledge  which  from  the  nature 
of  the  case  cannot  well  be  related,  but  must  stand 
isolated  in  our  thoughts,  have  their  interest.  Even  lists 
of  exceptions  have  their  interest.  If  we  are  studying 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  99 

Greek  accents  it  is  interesting  to  know  that  pais 
and  pas,  and  some  other  nionos3dlables  of  the  same 
form  of  declension,  do  not  take  the  circumflex  upon 
the  last  syllable  of  the  genitive  plural,  but  vary,  in 
this  resisect,  from  the  common  rule.  If  we  are  study- 
ing physiology,  it  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  pul- 
monaiy  artery  carries  dark  blood  and  the  pulmonary 
vein  carries  bright  blood,  departing  in  this  respect 
from  the  common  rule  for  the  division  of  labor  be- 
tween the  veins  and  the  arteries.  But  every  one  knows 
how  we  seek  naturally  to  combine  the  pieces  of  our 
knowledge  together,  to  bring  them  under  general  rules, 
to  relate  them  to  principles ;  and  how  unsatisfactory 
and  tiresome  it  would  be  to  go  on  forever  learning 
lists  of  exceptions,  or  accumulating  items  of  fact  which 
must  stand  isolated. 

Well,  that  same  need  of  relating  our  knowledge, 
which  operates  here  within  the  sphere  of  our  knowl- 
edge itself,  we  shall  find  operating,  also,  outside  that 
sphere.  We  experience,  as  we  go  on  learning  and 
knowing,  —  the  vast  majority  of  us  experience,  —  the 
need  of  relating  what  we  have  learnt  and  known  to 
the  sense  which  we  have  in  us  for  conduct,  to  the  sense 
which  we  have  in  us  for  beauty. 

A  certain  Greek  prophetess  of  Mantineia  in  Arca- 
dia, Diotima^  by  name,  once  explained  to  the  philos- 
opher Socrates  that  love,  and  impulse,  and  bent  of  all 
kinds,  is,  in  fact,  nothing  else  but  the  desire  in  men 
that  good  should  forever  be  present  to  them.  This 
desire  for  good,  Diotima  assured  Socrates,  is  our 
fundamental  desire,  of  which  fundamental  desire  every 
impulse  in  us  is  only  some  one  particular  form.  And 
therefore  this  fundamental  desire  it  is,  I  suppose, — 
this  desire  in  men  that  good  should  be  forever  present 
to  them,  —  which  acts  in  us  when  we  feel  the  impulse 


100  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

for  relating  our  knowledge  to  our  sense  for  conduct 
and  to  our  sense  for  beauty.  At  any  rate,  with  men 
in  general  the  instinct  exists.  Such  is  human  nature. 
And  the  instinct,  it  will  be  admitted,  is  innocent, 
and  human  nature  is  preserved  by  our  following  the 
lead  of  its  innocent  instincts.  Therefore,  in  seeking 
to  gratify  this  instinct  in  question,  we  are  following  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  in  humanity. 
""But,  no  doubt,  some  kinds  of  knowledge  cannot  be 
made  to  directly  serve  the  instinct  in  question,  cannot 
be  directly  related  to  the  sense  for  beauty,  to  the  sense 
for  conduct.  These  are  instrument-knowledges  ;  they 
lead  on  to  other  knowledges,  which  can.  A  man  who 
passes  his  life  in  instrument-knowledges  is  a  sj)ecialist. 
They  may  be  invaluable  as  instruments  to  something 
beyond,  for  those  who  have  the  gift  thus  to  employ 
them ;  and  they  may  be  disciplines  in  themselves  wherein 
it  is  useful  for  every  one  to  have  some  schooling.  But 
it  is  inconceivable  that  the  generality  of  men  should 
pass  all  their  mental  life  with  Greek  accents  or  with 
formal  logic.  My  friend  Professor  Sylvester,^  who  is 
one  of  the  first  mathematicians  in  the  world,  holds 
transcendental  doctrines  as  to  the  virtue  of  mathemat- 
ics, but  those  doctrines  are  not  for  common  men.  In 
the  very  Senate  House  and  heart  of  our  English 
Cambridge  I  once  ventured,  though  not  without  an 
apology  for  my  profaneness,  to  hazard  the  opinion 
that  for  the  majority  of  mankind  a  little  of  mathe- 
matics, even,  goes  a  long  way.  Of  course  this  is  quite 
consistent  with  their  being  of  immense  importance  as 
an  instrument  to  something  else ;  but  it  is  the  few 
who  have  the  aptitude  for  thus  using  them,  not  the 
bulk  of  mankind. 

The  natural  sciences  do  not,  however,  stand  on  the 
same  footing  with  these  instrument-knowledges.  Ex- 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  101 

perience  shows  us  that  the  generality  of  men  will  find 
more  interest  in  learning  that,  when  a  taper  burns, 
the  wax  is  converted  into  carbonic  acid  and  water,  or 
in  learning  the  explanation  of  the  phenomenon  of 
dew,  or  in  learning  how  the  circulation  of  the  blood  is 
carried  on,  than  they  find  in  learning  that  the  genitive 
plural  of  pais  and  pas  does  not  take  the  cii^cumflex  on 
the  termination.  And  one  piece  of  natural  knowledge 
is  added  to  another,  and  others  are  added  to  that,  and 
at  last  we  come  to  propositions  so  interesting  as  Mr. 
Darwin's  famous  proposition  ^  that  "  our  ancestor  was 
a  hairy  quadruped  furnished  with  a  tail  and  pointed 
ears,  probably  arboreal  in  his  habits."  Or  we  come  to 
propositions  of  such  reach  and  magnitude  as  those 
which  Professor  Huxley  delivers,  when  he  says  that 
the  notions  of  our  forefathers  about  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  the  world  were  all  wrong,  and  that 
nature  is  the  expression  of  a  definite  order  with  which 
nothing  interferes.  ? 

Interesting,  indeed,  these  results  of  science  are,  im-  \ 
portant  they  are,  and  we  should  all  of  us  be  acquainted 
with  them.  But  what  I  now  wish  you  to  mark  is,  that 
we  are  still,  when  they  are  propounded  to  us  and  we 
receive  them,  we  are  still  in  the  sphere  of  intellect  and 
knowledge.  And  for  the  generality  of  men  there  will 
be  found,  I  say,  to  arise,  when  they  have  duly  taken 
in  the  proposition  that  their  ancestor  was  "a  hairy 
quadi'uped  furnished  with  a  tail  and  pointed  ears, 
probably  arboreal  in  his  habits,"  there  will  be  found 
to  arise  an  invincible  desire  to  relate  this  proposition 
to  the  sense  in  us  for  conduct,  and  to  the  sense  in  us 
for  beauty.  But  this  the  men  of  science  will  not  do 
for  us,  and  will  hardly  even  profess  to  do.  They  will 
give  us  other  pieces  of  knowledge,  other  facts,  about 
other  animals  and  their  ancestors,  or  about  plants,  or 

lONIVEitSiTY  OF  CALIFOIiNIA 
SANTA  BARBABA 


102  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

about  stones,  or  about  stars ;  and  they  may  finally 
bring  us  to  those  great  "  general  conceptions  of  the 
universe,  which  are  forced  upon  us  all,"  says  Professor 
Huxley,  "  by  the  progress  of  physical  science."  But 
still  it  will  be  knowledge  only  which  they  give  us ; 
knowledge  not  put  for  us  into  relation  with  our  sense 
for  conduct,  our  sense  for  beauty,  and  touched  with 
emotion  by  being  so  put ;  not  thus  put  for  us,  and 
therefore,  to  the  majority  of  mankind,  after  a  certain 
while,  unsatisfying,  wearying. 

Not  to  the  born  naturalist,  I  admit.  But  what  do 
we  mean  by  a  born  naturalist?  We  mean  a  man  in 
whom  the  zeal  for  observing  nature  is  so  uncommonly 
strong  and  eminent,  that  it  marks  him  off  from  the 
bulk  of  mankind.  Such  a  man  will  pass  his  life  hap- 
pily in  collecting  natural  knowledge  and  reasoning 
upon  it,  and  will  ask  for  nothing,  or  hardly  anything, 
more.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  sagacious  and 
admirable  naturalist  whom  we  lost  not  very  long  ago, 
Mr.  Darwin,  once  owned  to  a  friend  that  for  his  part 
he  did  not  experience  the  necessity  for  two  things 
which  most  men  find  so  necessary  to  them,  —  religion 
and  poetry ;  science  and  the  domestic  affections,  he 
thought,  were  enough.  To  a  born  naturalist,  I  can 
well  understand  that  this  should  seem  so.  So  absorb- 
ing is  his  occupation  with  nature,  so  strong  his  love 
for  his  occupation,  that  he  goes  on  acquiring  natural 
knowledge  and  reasoning  upon  it,  and  has  little  time 
or  inclination  for  thinking  about  getting  it  related  to 
the  desire  in  man  for  conduct,  the  desire  in  man  for 
beauty.  He  relates  it  to  them  for  himself  as  he  goes 
along,  so  far  as  he  feels  the  need  ;  and  he  draws  from 
the  domestic  affections  all  the  additional  solace  neces- 
sary. But  then  Darwins  are  extremely  rare.  Another 
great  and  admirable  master  of  natural  knowledge. 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  103 

Faraday,  was  a  Sandemanian.^  That  is  to  say,  he 
related  his  knowledge  to  his  instinct  for  conduct  and 
to  his  instinct  for  beauty,  by  the  aid  of  that  respectable 
Scottish  sectary,  Robert  Sandeman.  And  so  strong,  in 
general,  is  the  demand  of  religion  and  poetry  to  have 
their  share  in  a  man,  to  associate  themselves  with  his 
knowing,  and  to  relieve  and  rejoice  it,  that,  probably, 
for  one  man  amongst  us  with  the  disposition  to  do  as 
Darwin  did  in  this  respect,  there  are  at  least  fifty 
with  the  disposition  to  do  as  Faraday. 

Education  lays  hold  upon  us,  in  fact,  by  satisfying  ^  ^ 
this  demand.    Professor  Huxley  holds   up  to   scorn      ■''"  * 
mediffivaL  education,  with  its  neglect  of  the  knowledge 
of  nature,  its  poverty  even  of  literary  studies,  its  formal  ^.,  i^caj^ 
logic  devoted  to  "  showing  how  and  why  that  which  the     '  i 

Church  said  was  true  must  be  true."  But  the  great  Kd<tfi^i,.il 
mediaeval  Universities  were  not  brought  into  being,  we 
may  be  sure,  by  the  zeal  for  giving  a  jejune  and  con- 
temptible education.  Kings  have  been  their  nursing 
fathers,  and  queens  have  been  their  nursing  mothers,*" 
but  not  for  this.  The  mediaeval  Universities  came  into 
being,  because  the  supposed  knowledge,  delivered  by 
Scripture  and  the  Church,  so  deeply  engaged  men's 
hearts,  by  so  simply,  easily,  and  powerfully  relating  it- 
self to  their  desire  for  conduct,  their  desire  for  beauty. 
All  other  knowledge  was  dominated  by  this  supposed 
knowledge  and  was  subordinated  to  it,  because  of  the 
surpassing  strength  of  the  hold  which  it  gained  upon 
the  affections  of  men,  by  allying  itself  profoundly  with 
their  sense  for  conduct,  their  sense  for  beauty. 

But  now,  says  Professor  Huxley,  conceptions  of  the 
universe  fatal  to  the  notions  held  by  our  forefathers 
have  been  forced  upon  us  by  physical  science.  Grant 
to  him  that  they  are  thus  fatal,  that  the  new  concep- 
tions must  and  will  soon  become  current  everywhere, 


104  IVLITTHEW  ARNOLD 

and  that  every  one  will  finally  perceive  them  to  be  fatal 
to  the  beliefs  of  our  forefathers.  The  need  of  humane 
letters,  as  they  are  truly  called,  because  they  serve  the 
paramount  desire  in  men  that  good  should  be  forever 
present  to  them, —  the  need  of  humane  letters,  to  es- 
tablish a  relation  between  the  new  conceptions,  and 
our  instinct  for  beauty,  our  instinct  for  conduct,  is 
only  the  more  visible.  The  Middle  Age  could  do  with- 
out humane  letters,  as  it  could  do  without  the  study 
of  nature,  because  its  supposed  knowledge  was  made 
to  engage  its  emotions  so  powerfully.  Grant  that  the 
supposed  knowledge  disappears,  its  power  of  being 
made  to  engage  the  emotions  will  of  course  disappear 
along  with  it,  —  but  the  emotions  themselves,  and 
their  claim  to  be  engaged  and  satisfied,  will  remain. 
Now  if  we  find  by  experience  that  humane  letters 
have  an  undeniable  power  of  engaging  the  emotions, 
the  importance  of  humane  letters  in  a  man's  training 
becomes  not  less,  but  greater,  in  proportion  to  the 
success  of  modern  science  in  extirpating  what  it  calls 
*'  mediaeval  thinking." 

Have  humane  letters,  then,  have  poetry  and  elo- 
quence, the  power  here  attributed  to  them  of  engag- 
ing the  emotions,  and  do  they  exercise  it  ?  And  if  they 
have  it  and  exercise  it,  hov)  do  they  exercise  it,  so  as 
to  exert  an  influence  upon  man's  sense  for  conduct, 
his  sense  for  beauty  ?  Finally,  even  if  they  both  can 
and  do  exert  an  influence  upon  the  senses  in  question, 
how  are  they  to  relate  to  them  the  results  —  the 
modern  results  —  of  natural  science  ?  All  these  ques- 
tions may  be  asked.  First,  have  poetry  and  eloquence 
the  power  of  calling  out  the  emotions  ?  The  appeal  is 
to  experience.  Experience  shows  that  for  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  men,  for  mankind  in  general,  they  have  the 
power.  Next,  do  they  exercise  it  ?  They  do.   But  then, 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  105 

hoio  do  they  exercise  it  so  as  to  affect  man's  sense  for 
conduct,  his  sense  for  beauty?  And  this  is  perhaps  a 
case  for  applying  the  Preacher's  words :  "  Though  a 
man  labor  to  seek  it  out,  yet  he  shall  not  find  it ; 
yea,  farther,  though  a  wise  man  think  to  know  it, 
yet  shall  he  not  be  able  to  find  it."  ^  Why  should 
it  be  one  thing,  in  its  effect  upon  the  emotions,  to 
say,  "  Patience'  is  a  Virtue,"  and  quite  another  thing, 
in  its  effect  upon  the  emotions,  to  say  with  Homer, 

T\i)Thv  yap  Mo7pat  Ov/xhy  64arav  avOpuiroiaiv  — "^ 

"for  an  enduring  heart  have  the  destinies  appointed 
to  the  children  of  men"?  Why  should  it  be  one 
thing,  in  its  effect  upon  the  emotions,  to  say  with 
the  philosopher  Spinoza,  Fclicitas  hi  ea  conslstit 
quod  ho7no  suuyn  esse  co7iservare  potest — "Man's 
happiness  consists  in  his  being  able  to  preserve  his 
own  essence,"  and  quite  another  thing,  in  its  effect 
upon  the  emotions,  to  say  with  the  Gospel,  "  What  is 
a  man  advantaged,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  himself,  forfeit  himself  ?  "  ^  How  does  this  dif- 
ference of  effect  arise  ?  I  cannot  tell,  and  I  am  not 
much  concerned  to  know ;  the  imjjortant  thing  is  that 
it  does  arise,  and  that  we  can  profit  by  it.  But  how, 
finally,  are  poetry  and  eloquence  to  exercise  the  power 
of  relating  the  modern  results  of  natural  science  to 
man's  instinct  for  conduct,  his  instinct  for  beauty? 
And  here  again  I  answer  that  I  do  not  know  how 
they  will  exercise  it,  but  that  they  can  and  will  exer- 
cise it  I  am  sure.  I  do  not  mean  that  modern  philo- 
sophical poets  and  modern  philosophical  moralists  are 
to  come  and  relate  for  us,  in  express  terms,  the  re- 
sults of  modern  scientific  research  to  our  instinct  for 
conduct,  our  instinct  for  beauty.  But  I  mean  that  we 
shall  find,  as  a  matter  of  experience,  if  we  know  the 


106  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

best  that  has  been  thought  and  uttered  in  the  world, 
we  shall  find  that  the  art  and  poetry  and  eloquence 
of  men  who  lived,  perhaps,  long  ago,  who  had  the  most 
limited  natural  knowledge,  who  had  the  most  erro- 
neous conceptions  about  many  important  matters,  we 
shall  find  that  this  art,  and  poetry,  and  eloquence, 
have  in  fact  not  only  the  power  of  refreshing  and  de- 
lighting us,  they  have  also  the  power,  —  such  is  the 
strength  and  worth,  in  essentials,  of  their  authors' 
criticism  of  life,  —  they  have  a  fortifying,  and  elevat- 
ing, and  quickening,  and  suggestive  power,  capable 
of  wonderfully  helping  us  to  relate  the  results  of 
modern  science  to  our  need  for  conduct,  our  need  for 
beauty.  Homer's  conceptions  of  the  physical  vmiverse 
were,  I  imagine,  grotesque  ;  but  really,  under  the  shock 
of  hearing  from  modern  science  that  "  the  world  is  not 
subordinated  to  man's  use,  and  that  man  is  not  the 
/,»X^J .  cynosure  of  things  terrestrial,"  I  could,  for  my  own 
part,  desire  no  better  comfort  than  Hotoer's  hue  which 
I  quoted  just  now, 

rXrp-bv  yap  3Iorpat  &vfj2)v  diaav  dvdpiinrounv  — 

"  for  an  enduring  heart  have  the  destinies  appointed  to 
''        the  children  of  men  "  ! 

And  the  more  that  men's  minds  are  cleared,  the 
more  that  the  results  of  science  are  frankly  accepted, 
the  more  that  poetjry  and  eloquence  come  to  be  re- 
ceived and  studied  as  what  in  truth  they  really  are,  — 
the  criticism  of  life  by  gifted  men,  alive  and  active 
with  extraordinary  power  at  an  unusual  number  of 
points;  —  so  much  the  more  will  the  value  of  humane 
letters,  and  of  art  also,  which  is  an  utterance  having 
a  like  kind  of  power  with  theirs,  be  felt  aud  acknowl- 
edged, and  their  place  in  education  be  secured. 

Let  us,  therefore,  all  of  us,  avoid  indeed  as  much  as 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  107 

possible  any  invidious  comparison  between  the  merits 
of  humane  letters,  as  means  of  education,  and  the 
merits  of  the  natural  sciences.  But  when  some  Presi- 
dent of  a  Section  for  Mechanical  Science  insists  on 
making  the  comparison,  and  tells  us  that  "  he  who  in 
his  training  has  substituted  literature  and  history  for 
natural  science  has  chosen  the  less  useful  alternative," 
let  us  make  answer  to  him  that  the  student  of  humane 
letters  only,  will,  at  least,  know  also  the  great  general 
conceptions  brought  in  by  modern  physical  science :  for 
science,  as  Professor  Huxley  says,  forces  them  upon 
us  all.  But  the  student  of  the  natural  sciences  only, 
will,  by  our  very  hypothesis,  know  nothing  of  humane 
letters ;  not  to  mention  that  in  setting  himself  to  be 
perpetually  accumulating  natural  knowledge,  he  sets 
himself  to  do  what  only  specialists  have  in  general  the 
gift  for  doing  genially.  And  so  he  will  probably  be 
unsatisfied,  or  at  any  rate  incomplete,  and  even  more 
incomplete  than  the  student  of  humane  letters  only. 

I  once  mentioned  in  a  school-report,  how  a  young 
man  in  one  of  our  English  training  colleges  having  to 
paraphrase  the  passage  in  Macbeth  beginning, 

"Can'st  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?  "  ^ 

turned  this  line  into,  "  Can  you  not  wait  upon  the  luna- 
tic ?  "  And  I  remarked  what  a  curious  state  of  things 
it  would  be,  if  every  pupil  of  our  national  schools 
knew,  let  us  say,  that  the  moon  is  two  thousand  one 
hundred  and  sixty  miles  in  diameter,  and  thought  at 
the  same  time  that  a  good  paraphrase  for 

"  Can'st  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?  '* 

was,  "  Can  you  not  wait  upon  the  lunatic?  "  If  one  is 
driven  to  choose,  I  think  I  would  rather  have  a  young 
person  ignorant  about  the  moon's  diameter,  but  aware 


^YV- 


VV^: 


108  IVIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

that  "  Can  you  not  wait  upon  the  lunatic  ? "  is  bad, 
than  a  young  person  whose  education  had  been  such 
as  to  manage  things  the  other  way. 
»  I  Or  to  go  higher  than  the  pupils  of  our  national 
schools.  I  have  in  my  mind's  eye  a  member  of  our 
British  Parliament  who  comes  to  travel  here  in  Amer- 
ica, who  afterwards  relates  his  travels,  and  who  shows 
a  really  masterly  knowledge  of  the  geology  of  this 
great  country  and  of  its  mining  capabilities,  but  who 
ends  by  gravely  suggesting  that  tlie  United  States 
should  borrow  a  prince  from  our  Royal  Family,  and 
should  make  him  their  king,  and  should  create  a  House 
of  Lords  of  great  landed  proprietors  after  the  pattern 
of  ours;  and  then  America,  he  thinks, would  have  her 
future  happily  and  perfectly  secured.  Surely,  in  this 
case,  the  President  of  the  Section  for  Mechanical  Sci- 
ence would  himself  hardly  say  that  our  member  of 
Parliament,  by  concentrating  himself  upon  geology 
and  mineralogy,  and  so  on,  and  not  attending  to  lit- 
erature and  history,  had  "chosen  the  more  useful 
alternative." 

If  then  there  is  to  be  separation  and  option  between 
humane  letters  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  natural  sci- 
ences on  the  other,  the  great  majority  of  mankind,  all 
who  have  not  exceptional  and  overpowering  aptitudes 
for  the  study  of  nature,  would  do  well,  I  cannot  but 
think,  to  choose  to  be  educated  in  humane  letters 
rather  than  in  the  natural  sciences.  Letters  will  call 
out  their  being  at  more  jDoints,  will  make  them  live 
more. 

I  said  that  before  I  ended  I  would  just  touch  on  the 
question  of  classical  education,  and  I  will  keep  my 
word.  Even  if  literature  is  to  retain  a  large  place  in 
our  education,  yet  Latin  and  Greek,  say  the  friends  of 
progress,  will  certainly  have  to  go.  Greek  is  the  grand 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  109 

offender  in  the  eyes  of  these  gentlemen.  The  attackers 
of  the  established  course  of  study  think  that  against 
Greek,  at  any  rate,  they  have  irresistible  arguments. 
Literature  may  perhaps  be  needed  in  education,  they 
say ;  but  why  on  earth  should  it  be  Greek  literature  ? 
Why  not  French  or  German  ?  Nay,  "  has  not  an  Eng- 
lishman models  in  his  own  literature  of  every  kind  of 
excellence  ?  "  As  before,  it  is  not  on  any  weak  pleadings 
of  my  own  that  I  rely  for  convincing  the  gainsayers ; 
it  is  on  the  constitution  of  human  nature  itself,  and 
on  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  in  humanity.  The 
instinct  for  beauty  is  set  in  human  nature,  as  surely  as 
the  instinct  for  knowledge  is  set  there,  or  the  instinct 
for  conduct.  If  the  instinct  for  beauty  is  served  by 
Greek  literature  and  art  as  it  is  served  by  no  other 
literature  and  art,  we  may  trust  to  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  in  humanity  for  keeping  Greek  as  part  of 
our  culture.  We  may  trust  to  it  for  even  making  the 
study  of  Greek  more  prevalent  than  it  is  now.  Greek 
will  come,  I  hope,  some  day  to  be  studied  more  ration- 
ally than  at  present ;  but  it  will  be  increasingly  stud- 
ied as  men  increasingly  feel  the  need  in  them  for 
beauty,  and  how  powerfully  Greek  art  and  Greek  lit- 
erature can  serve  this  need.  Women  will  again  study 
Greek,  as  Lady  Jane  Grey^  did  ;  I  believe  that  in 
that  chain  of  forts,  with  which  the  fair  host  of  the 
Amazons  are  now  engirdling  our  English  universities, 
I  find  that  here  in  America,  in  colleges  like  Smith 
College  in  Massachusetts,  and  Vassar  College  in  the 
State  of  New  York,  and  in  the  happy  families  of  the 
mixed  universities  out  West,  they  are  studying  it 
already.  ...  *--f  ..■  ,  -•    ■  -   '^' ' 

Defuitunamihisymmetria  prisca,  — "  The  antique 
symmetry  was  the  one  thing  wanting  to  me,"  said 
Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  and  he  was  an  Italian.  I  will  not 


h^o. 


110  MATTHEW  AEXOLD 

presume  to  speak  for  the  Americans,  but  I  am  sure 
that,  in  the  Englishman,  the  want  of  this  admirable 
symmetry  of  the  Greeks  is  a  thousand  times  more 
great  and  crying  than  in  any  Italian.  The  results  of 
the  want  show  themselves  most  glaringly,  perhaps,  in 
our  architecture,  but  they  show  themselves,  also,  in  all 
our  art.  Fit  details  strictly  combined^  in  view  of  a 
large  general  result  nohly  conceived  ;  that  is  just  the 
beautifiil  symmetria  prisca  of  the  Greeks,  and  it  is 
just  where  we  English  fail,  where  all  our  art  fails. 
Sti'iking  ideas  we  have,  and  well  executed  details  we 
have  ;  but  that  high  symmetry  which,  -with  satisfpng 
and  delightful  effect,  combines  them,  we  seldom  or 
never  have.  The  glorious  beauty  of  the  Acropolis  at 
Athens  did  not  come  from  single  fine  things  stuck 
about  on  that  hill,  a  statue  here,  a  gateway  there  ;  — 
no,  it  arose  from  all  things  being  perfectly  combined 
for  a  supreme  total  effect.  AVhat  must  not  an  English- 
man feel  about  our  deficiencies  in  this  respect,  as  the 
sense  for  beauty,  whereof  this  symmetry  is  an  essen- 
tial element,  awakens  and  strengthens  within  him ! 
what  will  not  one  day  be  his  respect  and  desire  for 
Greece  and  its  .vjmmetria  prisca.  when  the  scales  drop 
from  his  eyes  as  he  walks  the  London  streets,  and  he 
sees  such  a  lesson  in  meanness,  as  the  Strand,  for 
instance,  in  its  true  deformity  I  But  here  we  are  com- 
ing to  our  friend  Mr.  Ruskin's  province,  and  I  will  not 
intrude  upon  it,  for  he  is  its  very  sufficient  guardian. 
And  so  we  at  last  find,  it  seems,  we  fipd  flowing  in 
favor  of  the  humanities  the  natm-al  and  necessary 
stream  of  things,  which  seemed  against  them  when  we 
started.  The  "  hairy  quadruped  furnished  with  a  tail 
and  pointed  ears,  probably  arlioreal  in  his  habits,"  this 
good  fellow  carried  hidden  in  his  nature,  apparently, 
something  destined    to  develop  into    a  necessity  for 


LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE  111 

humane  letters.  Nay,  more ;  we  seem  finally  to  be 
even  led  to  the  further  conclusion  that  our  hairy 
ancestor  carried  in  his  nature,  also,  a  necessity 
for  Greek. 

And,  therefore,  to  say  the  truth,  I  cannot  really 
think  that  humane  letters  are  in  much  actual  danger 
of  being  thrust  out  from  their  leading  place  in  educa- 
tion, in  spite  of  the  array  of  authorities  against  them 
at  this  moment.  So  long  as  human  nature  is  what  it 
is,  their  attractions  will  remain  irresistible.  As  with 
Greek,  so  with  letters  generally  :  they  will  some  day 
come,  we  may  hope,  to  be  studied  more  rationally,  but 
they  will  not  lose  their  place.  What  will  happen  will 
rather  be  that  there  will  be  crowded  into  education 
other  matters  besides,  far  too  many ;  there  will  be, 
perhaps,  a  period  of  unsettlement  and  confusion  and 
false  tendency;  but  letters  will  not  in  the  end  lose 
their  leading  place.  If  they  lose  it  for  a  time,  they 
will  get  it  back  again.  We  shall  be  brought  back  to 
them  by  our  wants  and  aspirations.  And  a  poor  human- 
ist may  possess  his  soul  in  patience,  neither  strive  nor 
cry,  admit  the  energy  and  brilliancy  of  the  partisans 
of  physicaljcience,  and  their  present  favor  with  the 
public,  to  be  far  greater  than  his  own,  and  still  have 
a  happy  faith  that  the  nature  of  things  works  silently 
on  behalf  of  the  studies  which  he  loves,  and  that,  while 
we  shall  all  have  to  acquaint  ourselves  with  the  great 
results  reached  by  modern  science,  and  to  give  our- 
selves as  much  training  in  its  disciplines  as  we  can 
conveniently  carry,  yet  the  majority  of  men  will 
always  require  humane  letters  ;  and  so  much  the  more, 
as  they  have  the  more  and  the  greater  results  of  science 
to  relate  to  the  need  in  man  for  conduct,  and  to  the 
need  in  him  for  beauty.  ^^ 


II.   LITERARY   CRITICISM 
HEINRICH  HEINE  1 

"  I  KNOW  not  if  I  deserve  that  a  laurel-wreath 
should  one  day  be  laid  on  my  coffin.  Poetry,  dearly 
as  I  have  loved  it,  has  always  been  to  me  but  a  divine 
plaything.  I  have  never  attached  any  great  value  to 
poetical  fame  ;  and  I  trouble  myself  very  Httle  whether 
people  praise  my  verses  or  blame  them.  But  lay  on 
my  coffin  a  sword ;  for  I  was  a  brave  soldier  in  the 
Liberation  War  of  humanity."  ^ 

Heine  had  his  full  share  of  love  of  fame,  and  cared 
quite  as  much  as  his  brethren  of  the  genus  irri- 
tahile  whether  people  praised  his  verses  or  blamed 
them.  And  he  was  very  little  of  a  hero.  Posterity  will 
certainly  decorate  his  tomb  with  the  emblem  of  the 
lauiel  rather  than  with  the  emblem  of  the  sword. 
Still,  for  his  contemporaries,  for  us,,  for  the  Europe 
of  the  present  century,  he  is  significant  chiefly  for  the 
reason  which  he  himself  in  the  words  just  quoted 
assigns.  He  is  significant  because  he  was,  if  not  pre- 
eminently a  brave,  yet  a  brilliant,  a  most  effective 
soldier  in  the  Liberation  War  of  humanity. 

To  ascertain  the  master-current  in  the  literature  of 
an  epoch,  and  to  distinguish  this  from  all  minor  cur- 
rents, is  one  of  the  critic's  highest  functions ;  in  dis- 
charging it  he  shows  how  far  he  possesses  the  most 
indispensable  quality  of  his  office,  —  justness  of  spirit. 
The  living  writer  who  has  done  most  to  make  England 
acquainted  with  German  authors,  a  man  of  genius,  but 
to  whom  precisely  this  one  quality  of  justness  of  spirit 


HEINRICH  HEINE  113 

is  perhaps  wanting,  —  I  mean  Mr.  Carlyle,  —  seems 
to  me  in  the  result  of  his  labors  on  German  literature 
to  afford  a  proof  how  very  necessary  to  the  critic  this 
quality  is.  Mr.  Carlyle  has  spoken  admirably  of 
Goethe  ;  but  then  Goethe  stands  before  all  men's  eyes, 
the  manifest  centre  of  German  literature ;  and  from 
this  central  source  many  rivers  flow.  Which  of  these 
rivers  is  the  main  stream  ?  which  of  the  courses  of 
spirit  which  we  see  active  in  Goethe  is  the  course 
which  will  most  influence  the  future,  and  attract  and 
be  continued  by  the  most  powerful  of  Goethe's  succes- 
sors ?  —  that  is  the  question.  Mr.  Carlyle  attaches,  it 
seems  to  me,  far  too  much  importance  to  the  romantic 
school  of  Germany,  —  Tieck,  Novalis,  Jean  Paul 
Richter,! — and  gives  to  these  writers,  really  gifted 
as  two,  at  any  rate,  of  them  are,  an  undue  prominence. 
These  writers,  and  others  with  aims  and  a  general 
tendency  the  same  as  theirs,  are  not  the  real  inherit- 
ors and  continuators  of  Goethe's  power ;  the  current  of 
their  activity  is  not  the  main  current  of  German  liter- 
ature after  Goethe.  Far  more  in  Heine's  works  flows 
this  main  current ;  Heine,  far  more  than  Tieck  or  Jean 
Paul  Richter,  is  the  continuator  of  that  which,  in 
Goethe's  varied  activity,  is  the  most  powerful  and  vital ; 
on  Heine,  of  all  German  authors  who  survived  Goethe, 
incomparably  the  largest  portion  of  Goethe's  mantle 
fell.  I  do  not  forget  that  when  Mr.  Carlyle  was  deal- 
ing with  German  literature,  Heine,  though  he  was 
clearly  risen  above  the  horizon,  had  not  shone  forth 
with  all  his  strength ;  I  do  not  forget,  too,  that  after 
ten  or  twenty  years  many  things  may  come  out  plain 
before  the  critic  which  before  were  hard  to  be  dis- 
cerned by  him ;  and  assuredly  no  one  would  dream  of 
imputing  it  as  a  fault  to  Mr.  Carlyle  that  twenty 
years  ago  he  mistook  the  central  current  in  German 


114  MATTHEW  ARXOLD 

literature,  overlooked  the  rising  Heine,  and  attached 
undue  importance  to  that  romantic  school  which  Heine 
was  to  destroy  ;  one  may  rather  note  it  as  a  misfortune, 
sent  perhaps  as  a  delicate  chastisement  to  a  critic,  who 
—  man  of  genius  as  he  is,  and  no  one  recognizes  his 
genius  more  admirably  than  I  do  —  has,  for  the  func- 
tions of  the  critic,  a  little  too  much  of  the  self-will  and 
eccentricity  of  a  genuine  son  of  Great  Britain. 

Heine  is  noteworthy,  because  he  is  the  most  impor- 
tant German  successor  and  continuator  of  Goethe  in 
Goethe's  most  important  line  of  activity.  And  which 
of  Goethe's  lines  of  activity' is  this? — His  line  of 
activity  as  "  a  soldier  in  the  war  of  liberation  of 
humanity." 

Heine  himself  would  hardly  have  admitted  this  affil- 
iation, though  he  was  far  too  powerful-minded  a  man 
to  decry,  with  some  of  the  vulgar  German  liberals, 
Goethe's  genius.  "  The  wind  of  the  Paris  Revolution," 
he  writes  after  the  three  days  of  1830,  "blew  about 
the  candles  a  little  in  the  dark  night  of  Germany,  so 
that  the  red  curtains  of  a  German  throne  or  two 
caught  lire ;  but  the  old  watchmen,  who  do  the  police 
of  the  German  kingdoms,  are  already  bringing  out  the 
fire  engines,  and  will  keep  the  candles  closer  snuffed 
for  the  future.  Poor,  fast-bound  German  people,  lose 
not  all  heart  in  thy  bonds  I  The  fashionable  coating 
of  ice  melts  off  from  my  heart,  my  soid  quivers  and 
my  eyes  burn,  and  that  is  a  disadvantageous  state  of 
things  for  a  writer,  who  should  control  his  subject- 
matter  and  keep  himself  beautifully  objective,  as  the 
artistic  school  would  have  us,  and  as  Goethe  has  done; 
he  has  come  to  be  eighty  years  old  doing  this,  and 
minister,  and  in  good  condition :  —  poor  German 
people  !  that  is  thy  greatest  man ! "  ^ 

But  hear  Goethe  himself :  "  If  I  were  to  say  what 


HEINRICH  BDEINE  115 

I  had  really  been  to  the  Germans  in  general,  and  to 
the  young  German  poets  in  particular,  I  should  say  I 
had  been  their  liberator J'^ 

Modern  times  find  themselves  with  an  immense 
system  of  institutions,  established  facts,  accredited 
dogmas,  customs,  rules,  which  have  come  to  them  from 
times  not  modern.  In  this  system  their  life  has  to  be 
carried  forward ;  yet  they  have  a  sense  that  this  sys- 
tem is  not  of  their  own  creation,  tliat  it  by  no  means 
corresponds  exactly  with  the  wants  of  their  actual  life, 
that,  for  them,  it  is  customary,  not  rational.  The 
awakening  of  this  sense  is  the  awakening  of  the  mod- 
ern spirit.  The  modern  spirit  is  now  awake  almost 
everywhere ;  the  sense  of  want  of  correspondence  be- 
tween the  foi-ms  of  modern  Europe  and  its  spirit, 
between  the  new  wine  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
centuries,  and  the  old  bottles  of  the  eleventh  and  twelfth 
centuries,  or  even  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth, 
almost  every  one  now  perceives;  it  is  no  longer  dan- 
gerous to  affirm  that  this  want  of  correspondence 
exists  ;  people  are  even  beginning  to  be  shy  of  denying 
it.  To  remove  this  want  of  correspondence  is  begin- 
ning to  be  the  settled  endeavor  of  most  persons  of 
good  sense.  Dissolvents  of  the  old  European  system 
of  dominant  ideas  and  facts  we  must  all  be,  all  of 
us  who  have  any  power  of  working ;  what  we  have  to 
study  is  that  we  may  not  be  acrid  dissolvents  of  it. 

And  how  did  Goethe,  that  grand  dissolvent  in  an 
age  when  there  were  fewer  of  them  than  at  present, 
proceed  in  his  task  of  dissolution,  of  liberation  of  the 
modern  European  from  the  old  routine  ?  He  shall  tell 
us  himseK.  "  Through  me  the  German  poets  have 
become  aware  that,  as  man  must  live  from  within  out- 
wards, so  the  artist  must  work  from  within  outwards, 
seeing  that,  make  what  contortions  he  will,  he  can  only 


116  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

bring  to  light  his  own  individuality.  I  can  clearly 
mark  where  this  influence  of  mine  has  made  itseK  felt ; 
there  arises  out  of  it  a  kind  of  poetry  of  nature,  and 
only  in  this  way  is  it  possible  to  be  original." 

My  voice  shall  never  be  joined  to  those  which  decry 
Goethe,  and  if  it  is  said  that  the  foregoing  is  a  lame 
and  impotent  conclusion  to  Goethe's  declaration  that 
he  had  been  the  liberator  of  the  Germans  in  general, 
and  of  the  young  German  poets  in  particular,  I  say  it 
is  not.  Goethe's  profound,  imperturbable  naturalism 
is  absolutely  fatal  to  all  routine  thinking,  he  puts  the 
standard,  once  for  all,  inside  every  man  instead  of  out- 
side him ;  when  he  is  told,  such  a  thing  must  be  so, 
there  is  immense  authority  and  custom  in  favor  of  its 
being  so,  it  has  been  held  to  be  so  for  a  thousand 
years,  he  answers  with  Olympian  politeness,  "  But  is 
it  so  ?  is  it  so  to  me  ?  "  Nothing  could  be  more  really 
subversive  of  the  foundations  on  which  the  old  Euro- 
pean order  rested ;  and  it  may  be  remarked  that  no 
persons  are  so  radically  detached  from  this  order,  no 
persons  so  thoroughly  modern,  as  those  who  have  felt 
Goethe's  influence  most  deeply.  If  it  is  said  that 
Goethe  professes  to  have  in  this  way  deeply  influenced 
but  a  few  persons,  and  those  persons  poets,  one  may 
answer  that  he  could  have  taken  no  better  way  to 
secure,  in  the  end,  the  ear  of  the  world  ;  for  poetry 
is  simply  the  most  beautiful,  impressive,  and  widely 
effective  mode  of  saying  things,  and  hence  its  impor- 
tance. Nevertheless  the  process  of  liberation,  as  Goethe 
worked  it,  though  sure,  is  undoubtedly  slow  ;  he  came, 
as  Heine  says,  to  be  eighty  years  old  in  thus  working 
it,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  the  old  Middle-Age 
machine  was  still  creaking  on,  the  thirty  German 
coiirts  and  their  chamberlains  subsisted  in  all  their 
glory  ;  Goethe  himself  was  a  minister,  and  the  visible 


HEINRICH  HEINE  117 

triumph  of  the  modern  spirit  over  prescription  and 
routine  seemed  as  far  off  as  ever.  It  was  the  year 
1830  ;  the  German  sovereigns  had  passed  the  preced- 
ing- fifteen  years  in  breaking  the  promises  of  freedom 
they  had  made  to  their  subjects  when  they  wanted 
their  help  in  the  final  struggle  with  Napoleon.  Great 
events  wei'e  happening  in  France  ;  the  revolution,  de- 
feated in  1815,  had  arisen  from  its  defeat,  and  was 
wresting  from  its  adversaries  the  jjower.  Heinrich 
Heine,  a  young  man  of  genius,  born  at  Hamburg,i 
and  with  all  the  culture  of  Germany,  but  by  race  a 
Jew  ;  with  warm  sympathies  for  France,  whose  revolu- 
tion had  given  to  his  race  the  rights  of  citizenship,  and 
whose  rule  had  been,  as  is  well  known,  popular  in 
the  Rhine  provinces,  where  he  passed  his  youth  ;  with 
a  passionate  admiration  for  the  great  French  Emperor, 
with  a  passionate  contempt  for  the  sovereigns  who  had 
overthrown  him,  for  their  agents,  and  for  their  policy, 
—  Heinrich  Heine  was  in  1830  in  no  humor  for  any 
such  gradual  process  of  liberation  from  the  old  order  of 
things  as  that  which  Goethe  had  followed.  His  coun- 
sel  was  for  open  war.  Taking  that  terrible  modern 
weapon,  the  pen,  in  his  hand,  he  passed  the  remain- 
der of  his  life  in  one  fierce  battle.  What  was  that 
battle  ?  the  reader  will  ask.  It  was  a  life  and  death 
battle  with  Philistinism. 

Philistinism!'^ — we  have  not  the  expression  in 
English.  Perhaps  we  have  not  the  word  because  we 
have  so  much  of  the  thing.  At  Soli,  I  imagine,  they 
did  not  talk  of  solecisms  ;  ^  and  here,  at  the  very  head- 
quarters of  Goliath,  nobody  talks  of  Philistinism.  The 
French  have  adopted  the  term  ejncier  (grocer),  to 
designate  the  sort  of  being  whom  the  Germans  des- 
ignate by  the  Philistine ;  but  the  French  term  — 
besides  that  it  casts  a  slur  upon  a.  respectable  class, 


118  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

composed  of  living  and  susceptible  members,  while  the 
original  Philistines  are  dead  and  buried  long  ago  — 
is  really,  I  think,  in  itself  much  less  apt  and  expressive 
than  the  German  term.  Efforts  have  been  made  to 
obtain  in  English  some  term  equivalent  to  Philister 
or  epicier  ;  Mr.  Carlyle  has  made  several  such  efforts : 
"  respectability  with  its  thousand  gigs,"  ^  he  says  ;  — 
well,  the  occupant  of  every  one  of  these  gigs  is,  Mr. 
Carlyle  means,  a  Philistine.  However,  the  word  re- 
spectable  is  far  too  valuable  a  word  to  be  thus  per- 
verted from  its  proper  meaning  ;  if  the  English  are 
ever  to  have  a  word  for  the  thing  we  are  speaking  of, 
—  and  so  prodigious  are  the  changes  which  the  mod- 
ern spirit  is  introducing,  that  even  we  English  shall 
perhaps  one  day  come  to  want  such  a  word,  —  I  think 
we  had  much  better  take  the  term  Philistine  itself. 

Philistine  must  have  originally  meant,  in  the'mind 
of  those  who  invented  the  nickname,  a  strong,  dogged, 
unenlightened  opponent  of  the  chosen  people,  of  the 
children  of  the  light.  The  party  of  change,  the  would- 
be  remodellers  of  the  old  traditional  European  order, 
the  invokers  of  reason  against  custom,  the  representa- 
tives of  the  modern  spirit  in  every  sphere  where  it  is 
applicable,  regarded  themselves,  with  the  robust  self- 
confidence  natural  to  reformers  as  a  chosen  people,  as 
children  of  the  light.  They  regarded  their  adversaries 
as  humdrum  people,  slaves  to  routine,  enemies  to  light; 
stupid  and  oppressive,  but  at  the  same  time  very 
strong.  This  explains  the  love  which  Heine,  that  Pal- 
adin of  the  modern  spirit,  has  for  Erance ;  it  explains 
the  jjref erence  which  he  gives  to  France  over  Ger- 
many :  "  The  French,"  he  says,  "  are  the  chosen  people 
of  the  new  religion,  its  first  gospels  and  dogmas  have 
been  drawn  up  in  their  language ;  Paris  is  the  new 
Jerusalem,  and  the  Rhine  is  the  Jordan  which  divides 


HEINRICH  HEINE  119 

the  consecrated  land  of  freedom  from  the  land  of  the 
Philistines."  ^  He  means  that  the  French,  as  a  people, 
have  shown  more  accessibility  to  ideas  than  any  other 
people;  that  prescription  and  routine  have  had  less 
hold  upon  them  than  upon  any  other  people  ;  that  they 
have  shown  most  readiness  to  move  and  to  alter  at  the 
bidding  (real  or  supposed)  of  reason.  This  explains, 
too,  the  detestation  which  Heine  had  for  the  English : 
"  I  might  settle  in  England,"  he  says,  in  his  exile,  "  if 
it  were  not  that  I  should  find  there  two  things,  coal- 
smoke  and  Englishmen  ;  I  cannot  abide  either."  What 
he  hated  in  the  English  was  the  "  jichtbrittische  Be- 
schranktheit,"  as  he  calls  it,  —  the  gemiine  British 
narrowness.  In  truth,  the  English,  profoundly  as  they 
have  modified  the  old  Middle-Age  order,  great  as  is 
the  liberty  which  they  have  secured  for  themselves, 
have  in  all  their  changes  proceeded,  to  use  a  familiar 
expression,  by  the  rule  of  thumb  ;  what  was  intolerably 
inconvenient  to  tliem  they  have  suppressed,  and  as 
they  have  suppressed  it^  not  because  it  was  irrational, 
but  because  it  was  practically  inconvenient,  they  have 
seldom  in  suppressing  it  appealed  to  reason,  but  always, 
if  possible,  to  some  precedent,  or  form,  or  letter,  which 
served  as  a  convenient  instrument  for  their  purpose, 
and  which  saved  them  from  the  necessity  of  recur- 
ring to  general  principles.  They  have  thus  become, 
in  a  certain  sense,  of  all  people  the  most  inaccessible 
to  ideas  and  the  most  impatient  of  them  ;  inaccessible 
to  them,  because  of  their  want  of  familiarity  with 
them  ;  and  impatient  of  them  because  they  have  got 
on  so  well  without  them,  that  they  despise  those  who, 
not  having  got  on  as  well  as  themselves,  still  make  a 
fuss  for  what  they  themselves  have  done  so  well  with- 
out. But  there  has  certainly  followed  from  hence,  in 
this  country,  somewhat  of  a  general  depression  of  pure 


120  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

intelligence :  Philistia  has  come  to  be  thought  by  us 
the  true  Land  of  Promise,  and  it  is  anything  but 
that ;  the  born  lover  of  ideas,  the  bom  hater  of  com- 
monplaces, must  feel  in  this  country,  that  the  skj'  over 
his  head  is  of  brass  and  iron.  The  enthusiast  for  the 
idea,  for  reason,  values  reason,  the  idea,  in  and  for 
themselves  ;  he  values  them,  irrespectively  of  the  prac- 
tical conveniences  which  their  triumph  may  obtain  for 
him  ;  and  the  man  who  regards  the  possession  of  these 
practical  conveniences  as  something  sufficient  in  it- 
self, something  which  compensates  for  the  absence  or 
surrender  of  the  idea,  of  reason,  is,  in  his  eyes,  a  Phil- 
istine. This  is  why  Heine  so  often  and  so  mercilessly 
attacks  the  liberals  ;  much  as  he  hates  conservatism  he 
hates  Philistinism  even  more,  and  whoever  attacks 
conservatism  itself  ignobly,  not  as  a  child  of  light,  not 
in  the  name  of  the  idea,  is  a  Philistine.  Our  Cobbett^ 
is  thus  for  him,  much  as  he  disliked  our  clergy  and 
aristocracy  whom  Cobbett  attacked,  a  Philistine  with 
six  fingers  on  every  hand  and  on  every  foot  six  toes, 
four-and-twenty  in  number :  a  Philistine,  the  staff  of 
whose  spear  is  like  a  weaver's  beam.  Thus  he  speaks 
of  him  :  — 

"  While  I  translate  Cobbett's  words,  the  man  him- 
self comes  bodily  before  my  mind's  eye,  as  I  saw  him 
at  that  uproarious  dinner  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor 
Tavern,  with  his  scolding  red  face  and  his  radical 
laugh,  in  which  venomous  hate  mingles  with  a  mock- 
ing exultation  at  his  enemies'  surely  approaching  down- 
fall. He  is  a  chained  cur,  who  falls  with  equal  fury  on 
every  one  whom  he  does  not  know,  often  bites  the  best 
friend  of  the  house  in  his  calves,  barks  incessantly, 
and  just  because  of  this  incessantness  of  his  barking 
cannot  get  listened  to,  even  when  he  barks  at  a  real 
thief.  Therefore  the  distinguished  thieves  who  plunder 


HEINRICH  HEINE  121 

England  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  throw  the  growl- 
ing Cobbett  a  bone  to  stop  his  mouth.  This  makes  the 
dog  furiously  savage,  and  he  shows  all  his  hungry 
teeth.  Poor  old  Cobbett !  England's  dog !  I  have  no 
love  for  thee,  for  every  vulgar  nature  my  soul  abhors  ; 
but  thou  touchest  me  to  the  inmost  soul  with  pity,  as 
I  see  how  thou  strainest  in  vain  to  break  loose  and  to 
get  at  those  thieves,  who  make  off  with  their  booty 
before  thy  very  eyes,  and  mock  at  thy  fruitless  springs 
and  thine  impotent  howling."  ^ 

There  is  balm  in  Philistia  as  well  as  in  Gilead.  A 
chosen  circle  of  children  of  the  modern  spirit,  per- 
fectly emancipated  from  prejudice  and  commonplace, 
regarding  the  ideal  side  of  things  in  all  its  efforts  for 
change,  passionately  despising  half-measures  and  con- 
descension to  human  folly  and  obstinacy, — with  a 
bewildered,  timid,  torpid  multitude  behind,  —  conducts 
a  country  to  the  government  of  Herr  von  Bismarck. 
A  nation  regarding  the  practical  side  of  things  in  its 
efforts  for  change,  attacking  not  what  is  irrational,  but 
what  is  pressingly  inconvenient,  and  attacking  this  as 
one  body,  "  moving  altogether  if  it  move  at  all,"  ^  and 
treating  children  of  light  like  the  very  harshest  of  step- 
mothers, comes  to  the  prosperity  and  liberty  of  modern 
England.  For  all  that,  however,  Philistia  (let  me  say 
it  again)  is  not  the  true  promised  land,  as  we  English 
commonly  imagine  it  to  be ;  and  our  excessive  neglect 
of  the  idea,  and  consequent  inaptitude  for  it,  threatens 
us,  at  a  moment  when  the  idea  is  beginning  to  exercise 
a  real  power  in  human  society,  with  serious  future 
inconvenience,  and,  in  the  meanwhile,  cuts  us  off  from 
the  sympathy  of  other  nations,  which  feel  its  power 
more  than  we  do. 

But,  in  1830,  Heine  very  soon  found  that  the  fire- 
engines  of  the  German  governments  were  too  much 


122  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

* 

for  liis  direct  efforts  at  incendiarism.  "  What  demon 
drove  me,"  he  cries,  "  to  write  my  Reisebilder,  to  edit 
a  newspaper,  to  plague  myself  with  our  time  and  its 
interests,  to  try  and  shake  the  poor  German  Hodge 
out  of  his  thousand  years'  sleep  in  his  hole?  What 
good  did  I  get  by  it  ?  Hodge  opened  his  eyes,  only  to 
shut  them  again  immediately ;  he  yawned,  only  to  begin 
snoring^  asrain  the  next  minute  louder  than  ever  ;  he 
stretched  his  stiff  ungainly  limbs,  only  to  sink  down 
again  directly  afterwards,  and  lie  like  a  dead  man  in 
the  old  bed  of  his  accustomed  habits.  I  must  have  rest ; 
but  where  am  I  to  find  a  resting-place  ?  In  Germany  I 
can  no  longer  stay."' 

This  is  Heine's  jesting  account  of  his  own  efforts  to 
rouse  Germany :  now  for  his  pathetic  account  of  them ; 
it  is  because  he  unites  so  much  wit  with  so  much  pathos 
that  he  is  so  effective  a  writer :  — 

"The  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth ^  sate  in  sore 
straits,  in  the  Tyrol,  encompassed  by  his  enemies.  All 
his  knights  and  courtiers  had  forsaken  him ;  not  one 
came  to  his  help.  I  know  not  if  he  had  at  that  time 
the  cheese  face  with  which  Holbein  has  painted  him 
for  us.  But  I  am  sure  that  under  lip  of  his,  with  its 
contempt  for  mankind,  stuck  out  even  more  than  it 
does  in  his  portraits.  How  could  he  but  contemn  the 
tribe  which  in  the  sunshine  of  his  prosperity  had 
fawned  on  him  so  devotedly,  and  now,  in  his  dark  dis- 
tress, left  him  all  alone?  Then  suddenly  his  door 
opened,  and  there  came  in  a  man  in  disguise,  and,  as 
he  threw  back  his  cloak,  the  Kaiser  recognized  in  him 
his  faithful  Conrad  von  der  Rosen,  the  court  jester. 
This  man  brought  him  comfort  and  counsel,  and  he 
was  the  court  jester ! 

"  '  O  German  fatherland  I  dear  German  people  I  I 
am  thy  Conrad  von  der  Rosen.  The  man  whose  proper 


HEINRICH  HEINE  123, 

business  was  to  amuse  thee,  and  who  in  good  times 
should  have  catered  only  for  thy  mirth,  makes  his  way 
ipto  thy  prison  in  time  of  need ;  here,  under  my  cloak, 
I  bring  thee  thy  sceptre  and  crown;  dost  thou  not 
recognize  me,  my  Kaiser  ?  If  I  cannot  free  thee,  I  will 
at  least  comfort  thee,  and  thou  shalt  at  least  have  one 
with  thee  who  will  prattle  with  thee  about  thy  sorest 
affliction,  and  whisjaer  courage  to  thee,  and  love  thee, 
and  whose  best  joke  and  best  blood  shall  be  at  thy 
service.  For  thou,  my  people,  art  the  true  Kaiser,  the 
true  lord  of  the  land ;  thy  will  is  sovereign,  and  more 
legitimate  far  than  that  purple  Tel  est  notre  plaisir^ 
which  invokes  a  divine  right  with  no  better  warrant 
than  the  anointings  of  shaven  and  shorn  jugglers ; 
thy  will,  my  people,  is  the  sole  rightful  source  of  power. 
Though  now  thou  liest  down  in  thy  bonds,  yet  in  the 
end  will  thy  rightful  cause  prevail ;  the  day  of  deliver- 
ance is  at  hand,  a  new  time  is  beginning.  My  Kaiser, 
the  night  is  over,  and  out  there  glows  the  ruddy  dawn.' 

'"Conrad  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  thou  art  mis- 
taken ;  perhaps  thou  takest  a  headsman's  gleaming 
axe  for  the  sun,  and  the  red  of  dawn  is  only  blood.' 

" '  No,  my  Kaiser,  it  is  the  sun,  though  it  is  rising 
in  the  west ;  these  six  thousand  years  it  has  always 
risen  in  the  east ;  it  is  high  time  there  should  come  a 
change.' 

"  '  Conrad  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  thou  hast  lost 
the  bells  out  of  thy  red  cap,  and  it  has  now  such  an 
odd  look,  that  red  cap  of  thine ! ' 

" '  Ah,  my  Kaiser,  thy  distress  has  made  me  shake 
my  head  so  hard  and  fierce,  that  the  fool's  bells  have 
dropped  ofP  my  cap ;  the  cap  is  none  the  worse  for 
that.' 

" '  Conrad  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  what  is  that  noise 
of  breaking  and  cracking  outside  there  ? ' 


»124  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  '  Hush  !  that  is  the  saw  and  the  carpenter's  axe,  and 
soon  the  doors  of  thy  prison  will  be  burst  open,  and 
thou  wilt  be  free,  my  Kaiser ! ' 

"  '  Am  I  then  really  Kaiser  ?  Ah,  I  forgot,  it  is  the 
fool  who  tells  me  so ! ' 

"  '  Oh,  sigh  not,  my  dear  master,  the  air  of  thy  prison 
makes  thee  so  desponding !  when  once  thou  hast  got  thy 
rights  again,  thou  wilt  feel  once  more  the  bold  impe- 
rial blood  in  thy  veins,  and  thou  wilt  be  proud  like  a 
Kaiser,  and  violent,  and  gracious,  and  unjust,  and  smil- 
ing, and  ungrateful,  as  princes  are.' 

"  '  Conrad  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  when  I  am  free, 
what  wilt  thou  do  then  ? ' 

" '  I  will  then  sew  new  bells  on  to  my  cap.' 

" '  And  how  shall  I  recompense  thy  fidelity  ?  ' 

" '  Ah,  dear  master,  by  not  leaving  me  to  die  in  a 
ditch !  '"  1 

I  wish  to  mark  Heine's  place  in  modern  European 
literature,  the  scope  of  his  activity,  and  his  value.  I 
cannot  attempt  to  give  here  a  detailed  account  of  his 
life,  or  a  description  of  his  separate  works.  In  May 
1831  he  went  over  his  Jordan,  the  Rhine,  and  fixed 
himself  in  his  new  Jerusalem,  Paris.  There,  hencefor- 
ward, he  lived,  going  in  general  to  some  French  water- 
ing-place in  the  summer,  but  making  only  one  or  two 
short  visits  to  Germany  during  the  rest  of  his  life. 
His  works,  in  verse  and  prose,  succeeded  each  other 
without  stopping ;  a  collected  edition  of  them,  filling 
seven  closely-printed  octavo  volumes,  has  been  pub- 
lished in  America ;  ^  in  the  collected  editions  of  few 
people's  works  is  there  so  little  to  skip.  Those  who 
wish  for  a  single  good  specimen  of  him  should  read  his 
first  important  work,  the  work  which  made  his  reputa- 
tion, the  JReisebllder,  or  "  Travelling  Sketches  "  :  prose 
and  verse,  wit  and  seriousness,  are  mingled  in  it,  and 


HEINRICH  HEINE  125 

the  mingling  of  these  is  characteristic  of  Heine,  and  is 
nowhere  to  be  seen  practised  more  naturally  and  hap- 
pily than  in  his  Heisebilder.  In  1847  his  health,  which 
till  then  had  always  been  perfectly  good,  gave  way.  He 
had  a  kind  of  paralytic  stroke.  His  malady  proved  to 
be  a  softening  of  the  spinal  marrow  :  it  was  incurable ; 
it  made  rapid  progress.  In  May  1848,  not  a  year  after 
his  first  attack,  he  went  out  of  doors  for  the  last  time  ; 
but  his  disease  took  more  than  eight  years  to  kiU  him. 
For  nearly  eight  years  he  lay  helpless  on  a  couch,  with 
the  use  of  his  limbs  gone,  wasted  almost  to  the  pro- 
portions of  a  child,  wasted  so  that  a  woman  could  carry 
him  about ;  the  sight  of  one  eye  lost,  that  of  the  other 
greatly  dimmed,  and  requiring,  that  it  might  be  exer- 
cised, to  have  the  palsied  eyelid  lifted  and  held  up 
by  the  finger ;  all  this,  and  besides  this,  suffering  at 
short  intervals  pai'oxysms  of  nervous  agony.  I  have 
said  he  was  not  preeminently  brave  ;  but  in  the  aston- 
ishing force  of  spirit  with  which  he  retained  his  activity 
of  mind,  even  his  gayety,  amid  all  his  suffering,  and 
went  on  composing  with  undiminished  fire  to  the  last, 
he  was  truly  brave.  Nothing  could  clog  that  aerial 
lightness.  "  Pouvez-vous  siffler  ?  "  his  doctor  asked  him 
one  day,  when  he  was  almost  at  his  last  gasp;  — 
"  siffler,"  as  every  one  knows,  has  the  double  meaning 
of  to  whistle  and  to  hiss:  —  "Helas!  non,"  was  his 
v^^hispered  answer  ;  "  pas  meme  une  comedie  de  M. 
Scribe!  "  M.  Scribe  ^  is,  or  was,  the  favorite  dramatist 
of  the  French  Philistine.  "  My  nerves,"  he  said  to 
some  one  who  asked  him  about  them  in  1855,  the  year 
of  the  great  Exhibition  in  Paris,  "  my  nerves  are  of 
that  quite  singularly  remarkable  miserableness  of  na- 
ture, that  I  am  convinced  they  would  get  at  the  Exhi- 
bition the  grand  medal  for  pain  and  misery."  He  read 
all  the  medical  books  which  treated  of  his  complaint. 


126  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

"But,"  said  he  to  some  one  who  found  him  thus  en- 
gaged, "what  good  this  reading  is  to  do  me  I  don't 
know,  except  that  it  will  qualify  me  to  give  lectures  in 
heaven  on  the  ignorance  of  doctors  on  earth  about  dis- 
eases of  the  spinal  marrow."'  AVhat  a  matter  of  grim 
seriousness  are  our  own  ailments  to  most  of  us!  yet 
with  this  gayety  Heine  treated  his  to  the  end.  That 
end,  so  long  in  coming,  came  at  last.  Heine  died  on  the 
17th  of  February,  1856,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight.  By 
his  will  he  forbade  that  his  remains  should  be  trans- 
ported to  Germany.  He  lies  buried  in  the  cemetery  of 
Montmartre,  at  Paris. 

His  direct  political  action  was  null,  and  this  is 
neither  to  be  wondered  at  nor  regretted  ;  direct  polit- 
ical action  is  not  the  true  function  of  literature,  and 
Heine  was  a  born  man  of  letters.  Even  in  his  favorite 
France  the  turn  taken  by  public  affairs  was  not  at  all 
what  he  wished,  though  he  read  French  politics  by  no 
means  as  we  in  England,  most  of  us,  read  them.  He 
thought  things  were  tending  there  to  the  triumph  of 
communism  ;  and  to  a  champion  of  the  idea  like  Heine, 
what  there  is  gfi-oss  and  narrow  in  communism  was 
very  repulsive.  "It  is  all  of  no  use,"  he  cried  on  his 
death-bed,  "  the  future  belongs  to  our  enemies,  the  Com- 
munists, and  Louis  Napoleon  ^  is  their  John  the  Bap- 
tist." "  And  yet,"  —  he  added  with  aU  his  old  love  for 
that  remarkable  entity,  so  full  of  attraction  for  him,  so 
profoundly  unknown  in  England,  the  French  people, 
— "  do  not  believe  that  God  lets  all  this  go  forward 
merely  as  a  grand  comedy.  Even  though  the  Commun- 
ists deny  him  to-day,  he  knows  better  than  they  do, 
that  a  time  will  come  when  they  will  learn  to  believe 
in  him."  After  1831,  liis  hopes  of  soon  upsetting  the 
German  Governments  had  died  away,  and  his  propa- 
gandism  took  another,  a  more  truly  literary,  character. 


HEINRICH  HEINE  127 

It  took  the  character  of  an  intrepid  application  of  the 
modern  spirit  to  literature.  To  the  ideas  with  which 
the  burning  questions  of  modern  life  filled  him,  he 
made  all  his  subject-matter  minister.  He  touched  all 
the  great  points  in  the  career  of  the  human  race,  and 
here  he  but  followed  the  tendency  of  the  wide  culture 
of  Germany ;  but  he  touched  them  with  a  wand  which 
brought  them  all  under  a  light  where  the  modern  eye 
cares  most  to  see  them,  and  here  he  gave  a  lesson  to  the 
culture  of  Germany,  —  so  wide,  so  impartial,  that  it  is 
apt  to  become  slack  and  powerless,  and  to  lose  itself  in  its 
materials  for  want  of  a  strong  central  idea  round  which 
to  group  all  its  other  ideas.  So  the  mystic  and  romantic 
school  of  Germany  lost  itself  in  the  Middle  Ages,  was 
overpowered  by  their  influence,  came  to  ruin  by  its 
vain  dreams  of  renewing  them.  Heine,  with  a  far  pro- 
founder  sense  of  the  mystic  and  romantic  charm  of  the 
Middle  Age  than  Goerres,  or  Brentano,  or  Arnim,i 
Heine  the  chief  romantic  poet  of  Germany,  is  yet  also 
much  more  than  a  romantic  poet :  he  is  a  great  modern 
poet,  he  is  not  conquered  by  the  Middle  Age,  he  has  a 
talisman  by  which  he  can  feel  —  along  with  but  above 
the  power  of  the  fascinating  Middle  Age  itself  —  the 
power  of  modern  ideas. 

A  French  critic  of  Heine  thinks  he  has  said  enough 
in  saying  that  Heine  proclaimed  in  German  countries, 
with  beat  of  drum,  the  ideas  of  1789,  and  that  at  the 
cheerful  noise  of  his  drum  the  ghosts  of  the  Middle 
Age  took  to  flight.  But  this  is  rather  too  French  an 
account  of  the  matter.  Germany,  that  vast  mine  of 
ideas,  had  no  need  to  import  ideas,  as  such,  from  any 
foreign  country ;  and  if  Heine  had  carried  ideas,  as 
such,  from  France  into  Germany,  he  would  but  have 
been  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle.  But  that  for  which 
France,  far  less  meditative  than  Germany,  is  eminent, 


128  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

is  the  prompt,  ardent,  and  practical  application  of  an 
idea,  when  she  seizes  it,  in  all  departments  of  human 
activity  which  admit  it.  And  that  in  which  Germany 
most  fails,  and  by  failing  in  which  she  appears  so  help- 
less and  impotent,  is  just  the  practical  application  of 
her  innumerable  ideas.  "  A\''hen  Candide,"  says  Heine 
himself,  "  came  to  Eldorado,  he  saw  in  the  streets  a 
number  of  boys  who  were  playing  with  gold-nuggets 
instead  of  marbles.  This  degree  of  luxury  made  him 
imagine  that  they  must  be  the  king's  children,  and 
he  was  not  a  little  astonished  when  he  found  that  in 
Eldorado  gold-nuggets  are  of  no  more  value  than  mar- 
bles are  with  us,  and  that  the  schoolboys  play  with 
them.  A  similar  thing  happened  to  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  foreigner,  when  he  came  to  Germany  and  first  read 
German  books.  He  was  perfectly  astounded  at  the 
wealth  of  ideas  which  he  found  in  them ;  but  he  soon 
remarked  that  ideas  in  Germany  are  as  plentiful  as 
gold-nuggets  in  Eldorado,  and  that  those  writers  whom 
he  had  taken  for  intellectual  princes,  were  in  reality 
only  common  schoolboys."  ^  Heine  was,  as  he  calls 
himself,  a  "  Child  of  the  French  Revolution,"  an  "  In- 
itiator," because  he  vigorously  assured  the  Germans 
that  ideas  were  not  counters  or  marbles,  to  be  played 
with  for  their  own  sake ;  because  he  exhibited  in  liter- 
ature modern  ideas  applied  with  the  utmost  freedom, 
clearness,  and  originality.  And  therefore  he  declared 
that  the  great  task  of  his  life  had  been  the  endeavor 
to  establish  a  cordial  relation  between  France  and 
Germany.  It  is  because  he  thus  operates  a  junction 
between  the  French  spirit  and  German  ideas  and 
German  culture,  that  he  founds  something  new,  opens 
a  fresh  period,  and  deserves  the  attention  of  criticism 
far  more  than  the  German  poets  his  contemporaries, 
who  merely  continue  an  old  period  till  it  expires.  It 


HEINRICH  HEINE  129 

may  be  predicted  that  in  the  literature  of  other  coun- 
tries, too,  the  Fi'ench  spirit  is  destined  to  make  its 
influence  felt,  —  as  an  element,  in  alliance  with  the 
native  spirit,  of  novelty  and  movement,  —  as  it  has 
made  its  influence  felt  in  German  literature ;  fifty 
years  hence  a  critic  will  be  demonstrating  to  our  grand- 
children how  this  phenomenon  has  come  to  pass. 

We  in  England,  in  our  great  burst  of  literature 
during  the  .first  thirty  years  of  the  present  century, 
had  no  manifestation  of  the  modern  spirit,  as  this 
spirit  manifests  itself  in  Goethe's  works  or  Heine's. 
And  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  We  had  neither 
the  German  wealth  of  ideas,  nor  the  French  enthu- 
siasm for  applying  ideas.  There  reigned  in  the  mass 
of  the  nation  that  inveterate  inaccessibility  to  ideas, 
that  Philistinism,  —  to  use  the  German  nickname,  — 
•which  reacts  even  on  the  individual  genius  that  is 
exempt  from  it.  In  our  greatest  literary  epoch,  that 
of  the  Elizabethan  age,^  English  society  at  large  was 
accessible  to  ideas,  was  permeated  by  them,  was  vivified 
by  them,  to  a  degree  which  has  never  been  reached 
in  England  since.  Hence  the  unique  greatness  in  Eng- 
lish literature  of  Shakespeare  and  his  contemporaries. 
They  were  powerfully  upheld  by  the  intellectual  life 
of  their  nation  ;  they  applied  freely  in  literature  the 
then  modern  ideas,  —  the  ideas  of  the  Renascence  and 
the  Reformation.  A  few  years  afterwards  the  great 
English  middle  class,  the  kernel  of  the  nation,  the  class 
whose  intelligent  sympathy  had  upheld  a  Shakespeai-e, 
entered  the  prison  of  Puritanism,  and  had  the  key 
turned  on  its  spirit  there  for  two  hundred  years.  He 
enlargeth  a  nation,  says  Job,  and  straiteneth  it  again.^ 

In  the  literary  movement  of  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century  the  signal  attempt  to  apply  freely 
the  modern  spirit  was  made  in  England  by  two  mem- 


130  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

bers  of  the  aristocratic  class,  Byron  and  Shelley.  Aris- 
tocracies are,  as  such,  naturally  impenetrable  by  ideas ; 
but  their  individual  members  have  a  high  courage  and 
a  turn  for  breaking  bounds ;  and  a  man  of  genius,  who 
is  the  born  child  of  the  idea,  happening  to  be  born  in 
the  aristocratic  ranks,  chafes  against  the  obstacles 
which  prevent  him  from  freely  developing  it.  But  By- 
ron and  SheUey  did  not  succeed  in  their  attempt  freely 
to  apply  the  modern  spirit  in  English  literature ;  they 
could  not  succeed  in  it ;  the  resistance  to  baffle  them, 
the  want  of  intelligent  sympathy  to  guide  and  uphold 
them,  were  too  great.  Their  literary  creation,  com- 
pared with  the  literary  creation  of  Shakespeare  and 
Spenser,  compared  with  the  literary  creation  of  Goethe 
and  Heine,  is  a  failui'c.  The  best  literary  creation  of 
that  time  in  England  proceeded  from  men  who  did 
not  make  the  same  bold  attempt  as  Byron  and  Shelley. 
What,  in  fact,  was  the  career  of  the  chief  English 
men  of  letters,  their  contemporaries  ?  The  gravest  of 
them,  Wordsworth,  retired  (in  Middle-Age  phrase) 
into  a  monastery.  I  mean,  he  plunged  himself  in  the 
inward  life,  he  voluntarily  cut  himself  off  from  the 
modern  spirit.  Coleridge  took  to  opium.  Scott  became 
the  historiographer-royal  of  feudalism.  Keats  passion- 
ately gave  himself  up  to  a  sensuous  genius,  to  his  fac- 
ulty for  interpreting  nature ;  and  he  died  of  consump- 
tion at  twenty-five.  Wordsworth,  Scott,  and  Keats 
have  left  admirable  works ;  far  more  solid  and  com- 
plete works  than  those  which  Byron  and  Shelley  have 
left.  But  their  works  have  this  defect,  —  they  do  not 
belong  to  that  which  is  the  main  current  of  the  liter- 
ature of  modern  epochs,  they  do  not  apply  modern 
ideas  to  life ;  they  constitute,  therefore,  minor  cin^rents, 
and  all  other  literary  work  of  our  day,  however  popu- 
lar, which  has  the  same  defect,  also  constitutes  but 


HEINRICH  HEINE  131 

a  minor  current.  Byron  and  Shelley  will  long  be 
remembered,  long  after  the  inadequacy  of  their  actual 
work  is  clearly  recognized,  for  their  passionate,  their 
Titanic  effort  to  flow  in  the  main  stream  of  modern 
literature ;  their  names  will  be  greater  than  their 
writings ;  stat  magni  nominis  umbra.^ 

Heine's  literary  good  fortune  was  superior  to  that 
of  Byron  and  Shelley.  His  theatre  of  operations  was 
Germany,  whose  Philistinism  does  not  consist  in  her 
want  of  ideas,  or  in  her  inaccessibility  to  ideas,  for  she 
teems  with  them  and  loves  them,  but,  as  I  have  said, 
in  her  feeble  and  hesitating  application  of  modern 
ideas  to  life.  Heine's  intense  modernism,  his  absolute 
freedom,  his  utter  rejection  of  stock  classicism  and 
stock  romanticism,  his  bringing  all  things  under  the 
point  of  view  of  the  nineteenth  century,  were  under- 
stood and  laid  to  heart  by  Germany,  through  virtue 
of  her  immense,  tolerant  intellectualism,  much  as  there 
was  in  all  Heine  said  to  affront  and  wound  Germany. 
The  wit  and  ardent  modern  spirit  of  France  Heine 
joined  to  the  culture,  the  sentiment,  the  thought  of 
Germany.  This  is  what  makes  him  so  remarkable : 
his  wonderful  clearness,  lightness,  and  freedom,  united 
with  such  power  of  feeling,  and  width  of  range.  Is 
there  anywhere  keener  wit  than  in  his  story  of  the 
French  abbe  who  was  his  tutor,  and  who  wanted  to 
get  from  him  that  la  religion  is  French  for  der 
Glmibe :  "  Six  times  did  he  ask  me  the  question : 
'  Henry,  what  is  Jer  Glauhe  in  French  ? '  and  six 
times,  and  each  time  with  a  greater  burst  of  tears, 
did  I  answer  him  —  'It  is  le  credit.''  And  at  the 
seventh  time,  his  face  purple  with  rage,  the  infuriated 
questioner  screamed  out:  'It  \^  la  religion'' -,  and  a 
rain  of  cuffs  descended  upon  me,  and  all  the  other 
boys  burst  out  laughing.  Since  that  day  I  have  never 


132  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

been  able  to  hear  la  religion  mentioned,  without  feel- 
ing a  tremor  run  through  my  back,  and  my  cheeks 
grow  red  with  shame."  ^  Or  in  that  comment  on  the 
fate  of  Professor  Saalfeld,  who  had  been  addicted  to 
writing  furious  pamphlets  against  Napoleon,  and  who 
was  a  professor  at  Gbttingen,  a  great  seat,  according 
to  Heine,  of  pedantry  and  Philistinism.  "  It  is  curi- 
ous," says  Heine,  "  the  three  greatest  adversaries  of 
Napoleon  have  all  of  them  ended  miserably.  Castle- 
reagh  ^  cut  his  own  throat ;  Louis  the  Eighteenth 
rotted  upon  his  throne ;  and  Professor  Saalfeld  is  still 
a  professor  at  Gottingen."  ^  It  is  impossible  to  go 
beyond  that. 

What  wit,  again,  in  that  saying  which  every  one 
has  heard  :  "  The  Englishman  loves  liberty  like  his 
lawful  wife,  the  Frenchman  loves  her  like  his  mis- 
tress, the  German  loves  her  like  his  old  grandmother." 
But  the  turn  Heine  gives  to  this  incomparable  saying 
is  not  so  well  known ;  and  it  is  by  that  turn  he  shows 
himself  the  born  poet  he  is,  —  full  of  delicacy  and 
tenderness,  of  inexhaustible  resource,  infinitely  new 
and  striking :  — 

"  And  yet,  after  all,  no  one  can  ever  tell  how  things 
may  turn  out.  The  grumpy  Englishman,  in  an  ill-tem- 
per with  his  wife,  is  capable  of  some  day  putting  a  rope 
round  her  neck,  and  taking  her  to  be  sold  at  Smith- 
field.  The  inconstant  Frenchman  may  become  unfaith- 
ful to  his  adored  mistress,  and  be  seen  fluttering  about 
the  Palais  Royal  after  another.  But  the  Germamoill 
never  quite  abandon  his  old  grandmother;  he  will 
always  keep  for  her  a  nook  by  the  chimney-corner, 
where  she  can  tell  her  fairy  stories  to  the  listening 
children."  * 

Is  it  possible  to  touch  more  delicately  and  happily 
both  the  weakness  and  the  strength  of  Germany  ;  — : 


HEINRICH  HEINE  133 

pedantic,  simple,  enslaved,  free,  ridiculous,  admirable 
Germany  ? 

And  Heine's  verse,  —  his  Lieder  f  Oh,  the  com- 
fort, after  dealing  with  French  people  of  genius,  irre- 
sistibly impelled  to  try  and  express  themselves  in  verse, 
launching  out  into  a  deep  which  destiny  has  sown 
with  so  many  rocks  for  them,  —  the  comfort  of  coming 
to  a  man  of  genius,  who  finds  in  verse  his  freest  and 
most  perfect  expression,  whose  voyage  over  the  deep 
of  poetry  destiny  makes  smooth !  After  the  rhythm, 
to  us,  at  any  rate,  with  the  German  paste  in  our  com- 
position, so  deeply  unsatisfying,  of  — 

"Ah  !  que  me  dites-vous,  et  que  vous  dit  mon  ame  ? 
Que  dit  le  ciel  k  I'aube  et  la  flamme  k  la  flamme  ?  " 

what  a  blessing  to  arrive  at  rhythms  like  — 

"  Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn — "^ 

or  — 

"  Siehst  sehr  sterbeblasslich  aus, 
Doch  getrost !  du  bist  zu  Haus  —  "  ' 

in  which  one's  soul  can  take  pleasure !  The  magic  of 
Heine's  poetical  form  is  incomparable  ;  he  chiefly  uses  a 
form  of  old  German  popular  poetry ,  a  ballad-form  which 
has  more  rapidity  and  grace  than  any  ballad-form  of 
ours  ;  he  employs  this  form  with  the  most  exquisite  light- 
ness and  ease,  and  yet  it  has  at  the  same  time  the  inborn 
fulness,  pathos,  and  old-world  charm  of  all  true  forms 
of  popular  poetry.  Thus  in  Heine's  poetry,  too,  one 
perpetually  blends  the  impression  of  French  modern- 
ism and  clearness,  with  that  of  German  sentiment  and 
fulness ;  and  to  give  this  blended  impression  is,  as  I 
have  said,  Heine's  great  characteristic.  To  feel  it,  one 
must  read  him ;  he  gives  it  in  his  form  as  well  as  in 
his  contents,  and  by  translation  I  can  only  reproduce 
it  so  far  as  his  contents  give  it.  But  even  the  contents 


134  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  many  of  his  poems  are  cajDable  of  giving  a  certain 
sense  of  it.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  poem  in  which  he 
makes  his  profession  of  faith  to  an  innocent  beautiful 
soul,  a  sort  of  Gretchen,  the  child  of  some  simple 
mining  people  having  their  hut  among  the  pines  at 
the  foot  of  the  Hartz  Mountains,  who  reproaches  him 
with  not  holding  the  old  articles  of  the  Christian 
creed :  — 

"  Ah,  my  child,  while  I  was  yet  a  little  boy,  while 
I  yet  sate  upon  my  mother's  knee,  I  believed  in  God 
the  Father,  who  rules  up  there  in  Heaven,  good  and 
great ; 

"  Who  created  the  beautiful  earth,  and  the  beauti- 
ful men  and  women  thereon ;  who  ordained  for  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  their  courses. 

"  When  I  got  bigger,  my  child,  I  comprehended  yet 
a  great  deal  more  than  this,  and  comprehended,  and 
grew  intelligent ;  and  I  believe  on  the  Son  also ; 

"  On  the  beloved  Son,  who  loved  us,  and  revealed 
love  to  us;  and,  for  his  reward,  as  always  happens, 
was  crucified  by  the  people. 

"  Now,  when  I  am  grown  up,  have  read  much,  have 
travelled  much,  my  heart  swells  within  me,  and  with 
my  whole  heart  I  believe  on  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"  The  greatest  miracles  were  of  his  working,  and 
still  greater  miracles  doth  he  even  now  work ;  he  burst 
in  sunder  the  oppressor's  stronghold,  and  he  burst  in 
sunder  the  bondsman's  yoke. 

"  He  heals  old  death-wounds,  and  renews  the  old 
right ;  all  mankind  are  one  race  of  noble  equals  before 
him. 

"  He  chases  away  the  evil  clouds  and  the  dark  cob- 
webs of  the  brain,  which  have  spoilt  love  and  joy  for 
us,  which  day  and  night  have  loured  on  us. 

"  A  thousand  knights,  well  harnessed,  has  the  Holy 


HEINEICH  HEINE  135 

Ghost  chosen  out  to  fulfil  his  will,  aud  he  has  put 
courage  into  their  souls. 

"  Their  good  swords  flash,  their  bright  banners 
wave  ;  what,  thou  wouldst  give  much,  my  child,  to  look 
upon  such  gallant  knights  ? 

"  Well,  on  me,  my  child,  look  !  kiss  me,  and  look 
boldly  upon  me !  one  of  those  knights  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  am  I."  1 

One  has  only  to  turn  over  the  pages  of  his  Roman- 
cero^  —  a  collection  of  poems  written  in  the  first  years 
of  his  illness,  with  his  whole  power  and  charm  still  in 
them,  and  not,  like  his  latest  poems  of  all,  painfully 
touched  by  the  air  of  his  Matrazzen-griift,  his  "  mat- 
tress-grave,"—  to  see  Heine's  width  of  range;  the 
most  varied  figures  succeed  one  another,  —  Rhampsini- 
tus,^  Edith  with  the  Swan  Neck,*  Charles  the  First, 
Marie  Antoinette,  King  David,  a  heroine  of  Mabille, 
Melisanda  of  Tripoli,^  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  Pedro 
the  Cruel,^  Firdusi,^  Cortes,  Dr.  Dollinger;^ — but 
never  does  Heine  attempt  to  be  hiibsch  ohjectiv,  "  beau- 
tifully objective,"  to  become  in  spirit  an  old  Egyptian, 
or  an  old  Hebrew,  or  a  Middle- Age  knight,  or  a  Span- 
ish adventurer,  or  an  English  royalist;  he  always 
remains  Heinrich  Heine,  a  son  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. To  give  a  notion  of  his  tone,  I  will  quote  a  few 
stanzas  at  the  end  of  the  Spanish  Atridce,^  in  which 
he  describes,  in  the  character  of  a  visitor  at  the  court 
of  Henry  of  Transtamare  ^^  at  Segovia,  Henry's  treat- 
ment of  the  children  of  his  brother,  Pedro  the  Cruel. 
Don  Diego  Albuquerque,  his  neighbor,  strolls  after 
dinner  through  the  castle  with  him  : — 

"  In  the  cloister-passage,  which  leads  to  the  kennels 
where  are  kept  the  king's  hounds,  that  with  their 
growling  and  yelping  let  you  know  a  long  way  off  where 
they  are, 


136  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  There  I  saw,  built  into  the  wall,  and  with  a  strong 
iron  grating  for  its  outer  face,  a  cell  like  a  cage. 

"  Two  human  figures  sate  therein,  two  young  boys ; 
chained  by  the  leg,  they  crouched  in  the  dirty  straw. 

"  Hardly  twelve  years  old  seemed  the  one,  the 
other  not  much  older;  their  faces  fair  and  noble,  but 
pale  and  wan  with  sickness. 

"  They  were  all  in  rags,  almost  naked ;  and  their 
lean  bodies  showed  wounds,  the  marks  of  ill-usage ; 
both  of  them  shivered  with  fever. 

"  They  looked  up  at  me  out  of  the  depth  of  their 
misery  ;  '  Who,'  I  cried  in  horror  to  Don  Diego,  '  are 
these  pictures  of  wretchedness  ?  ' 

"  Don  Diego  seemed  embarrassed ;  he  looked  round 
to  see  that  no  one  was  listening ;  then  he  gave  a  deep 
sigh ;  and  at  last,  putting  on  the  easy  tone  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  he  said  :  — 

"  '  These  are  a  pair  of  king's  sons,  who  were  early 
left  orphans ;  the  name  of  their  father  was  King  Pedro, 
the  name  of  their  mother,  Maria  de  Padilla. 

" '  After  the  great  battle  of  Navarette,  when  Henry 
of  Transtaraare  had  relieved  his  brother,  King 
Pedro,  of  the  troublesome  burden  of  the  crown, 

"  '  And  likewise  of  that  still  more  troublesome  bur- 
den, which  is  called  life,  then  Don  Henry's  victorious 
magnanimity  had  to  deal  with  his  brother's  children. 

"  '  He  has  adopted  them,  as  an  uncle  should  ;  and 
he  has  given  them  free  quarters  in  his  own  castle. 

"  '  The  room  which  he  has  assigned  to  them  is  cer- 
tainly rather  small,  but  then  it  is  cool  in  summer, 
and  not  intolerably  cold  in  winter. 

"  '  Their  fare  is  rye-bread,  which  tastes  as  sweet  as 
if  the  goddess  Ceres  had  baked  it  express  for  her 
beloved  Proserpine, 

" '  Not  unfrequently,  too,  he  sends  a  scullion    to 


HEINRICH  HEINE  137 

them  with  garbanzos/  and  then  the  young  gentlemen 
know  that  it  is  Sunday  in  Spain. 

"  '  But  it  is  not  Sunday  every  day,  and  garbanzos  do 
not  come  every  day  ;  and  the  master  of  the  hounds 
gives  them  the  treat  of  his  whip. 

" '  For  the  master  of  the  hounds,  who  has  under  his 
superintendence  the  kennels  and  the  pack,  and  the 
nephews'  cage  also, 

" '  Is  the  unfortunate  husband  of  that  lemon-faced 
woman  with  the  white  ruff,  whom  we  remarked  to-day 
at  dinner. 

"  '  And  she  scolds  so  sharp,  that  often  her  husband 
snatches  his  whip,  and  rushes  down  here,  and  gives  it 
to  the  dogs  and  to  the  poor  little  boys. 

"  '  But  his  majesty  has  expressed  his  disapproval 
of  such  proceedings,  and  has  given  orders  that  for  the 
future  his  nephews  are  to  be  treated  differently  from 
the  dogs. 

" '  He  has  determined  no  longer  to  entrust  the 
disciplining  of  his  nephews  to  a  mercenary  stranger, 
but  to  carry  it  out  with  his  own  hands.' 

"  Don  Diego  stopped  abruptly  ;  for  the  seneschal  of 
the  castle  joined  us,  and  politely  expressed  his  hope 
that  we  had  dined  to  our  satisfaction." 

Observe  how  the  irony  of  the  whole  of  that,  finish- 
ing with  the  grim  innuendo  of  the  last  stanza  but  one, 
is  at  once  truly  masterly  and  truly  modern. 

No  account  of  Heine  is  complete  which  does  not 
notice  the  Jewish  element  in  him.  His  race  he  treated 
with  the  same  freedom  with  which  he  treated  every- 
thing else,  but  he  derived  a  great  force  from  it,  and 
no  one  knew  this  better  than  he  himself.  He  has 
excellently  pointed  out  how  in  the  sixteenth  century 
there  was  a  double  renascence,  —  a  Hellenic  renascence 
and  a  Hebrew  renascence —  and  how  both  have  been 


138  IMATTHEW  ARNOLD 

great  powers  ever  since.  He  bimseK  had  in  him  both 
the  spirit  of  Greece  and  the  spirit  of  Judsea :  both 
these  spirits  reach  the  infinite,  which  is  the  true  goal 
of  all  poetry  and  all  art,  —  the  Greek  spirit  by  beauty, 
the  Hebrew  spirit  by  sublimity.  By  his  perfection  of 
literary  form,  by  his  love  of  clearness,  by  his  love  of 
beauty,  Heine  is  Greek  ;  by  his  intensity,  by  his  untam- 
ableness,  by  his  "  longing  which  cannot  be  uttered,"  ^ 
he  is  Hebrew.  Yet  what  Hebrew  ever  treated  the 
things  of  the  Hebrews  like  this  ?  — 

"  There  lives  at  Hamburg,  in  a  one-roomed  lodging 
in  the  Baker's  Broad  Walk,  a  man  whose  name  is 
Moses  Lump  ;  all  the  week  he  goes  about  in  wind  and 
rain,  with  his  pack  on  his  back,  to  earn  his  few  shil- 
lings ;  but  when  on  Friday  evening  he  comes  home,  he 
finds  the  candlestick  with  seven  candles  lighted,  and 
the  table  covered  with  a  fair  white  cloth,  and  he  puts 
away  from  him  his  pack  and  his  cares,  and  he  sits  down 
to  table  with  his  squinting  wife  and  yet  more  squint- 
ing daughter,  and  eats  fish  with  them,  fish  which  has 
been  dressed  in  beautiful  white  garlic  sauce,  sings 
therewith  the  grandest  psalms  of  King  David,  rejoices 
with  his  whole  heart  over  the  deliverance  of  the  chil- 
dren of  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  rejoices,  too,  that  all  the 
wicked  ones  who  have  done  the  children  of  Israel  hurt, 
have  ended  by  taking  themselves  off ;  that  King  Pha- 
raoh, Nebuchadnezzar,  Hamun,  Antiochus,  Titus,  and 
all  such  people,  are  well  dead,  while  he,  Closes  Lump, 
is  3'et  alive,  and  eating  fish  with  wife  and  daughter  ;  and 
I  can  tell  30U,  Doctor,  the  fish  is  delicate  and  the  man 
is  happy,  he  has  no  call  to  torment  himself  about  cul- 
ture, he  sits  contented  in  his  religion  and  in  his  green 
bedgown,  like  Diogenes  in  his  tub,  he  contemplates 
with  satisfaction  his  candles,  which  he  on  no  account 
will  snuff  for  himself ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  if  the  can- 


HEINRICH  HEINE  139 

(lies  burn  a  little  dim,  and  the  snuffers-woman,  whose 
business  it  is  to  snuff  them,  is  not  at  hand,  and  Roth- 
schild the  Great  were  at  that  moment  to  come  in,  with 
all  his  brokers,  bill  discounters,  agents,  and  chief 
clerks,  with  whom  he  conquers  the  world,  and  Roth- 
schild were  to  say  :  '  Moses  Lump,  ask  of  me  what 
favor  you  will,  and  it  shall  be  granted  you ' ;  —  Doc- 
tor, I  am  convinced,  Moses  Lump  would  quietly  an- 
swer :  '  Snuff  me  those  candles  ! '  and  Rothschild  the 
Great  would  exclaim  with  admiration  :  '  If  I  were 
not  Rothschild,  I  would  be  Moses  Lump.'  "  ^ 

There  Heine  shows  us  his  own  people  by  its  comic 
side  ;  in  the  poem  of  the  Princess  Sahhath  ^  he  shows 
it  to  us  by  a  more  serious  side.  The  Princess  Sabbath, 
"  the  tranquil  Princess,  pearl  and  flower  of  all  beauty, 
fair  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  Solomon's  bosom  friend, 
that  blue  stocking  from  Ethiopia,  who  wanted  to  shine 
by  her  esprit,  and  with  her  wise  riddles  made  herseK  in 
the  long  run  a  bore  "  (with  Heine  the  sarcastic  turn 
is  never  far  off),  this  princess  has  for  her  betrothed 
a  prince  whom  sorcery  has  transformed  into  an  animal 
of  lower  race,  the  Prince  Israel. 

"  A  dog  with  the  desires  of  a  dog,  he  wallows  all 
the  week  long  in  the  filth  and  refuse  of  life,  amidst 
the  jeers  of  the  boys  in  the  street. 

"But  every  Friday  evening,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
suddenly  the  magic  passes  off,  and  the  dog  becomes 
once  more  a  human  being. 

"  A  man  with  the  feelings  of  a  man,  with  head  and 
heart  raised  aloft,  in  festal  garb,  in  almost  clean  garb, 
he  enters  the  halls  of  his  Father. 

"  Hail,  beloved  halls  of  my  royal  Father  !  Ye  tents 
of  Jacob,  I  kiss  with  my  lips  your  holy  door-posts !  " 

Still  more  he  shows  us  this  serious  side  in  his  beau- 
tiful poem  on  Jehuda  ben  Halevy,^  a  poet  belonging 


140  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

to  "the  great  golden  age  of  the  Arabian,  Old-Spanish, 
Jewish  school  of  poets,"  a  contemporary  of  the  trou- 
badours :  — 

"  He,  too,  —  the  hero  whom  we  sing,  —  Jehuda  ben 
Halevy,  too,  had  his  lady-love ;  but  she  was  of  a  spe- 
cial sort. 

"  She  was  no  Laura.  ^  whose  eyes,  mortal  stars,  in 
the  cathedral  on  Good  Friday  kindled  that  world- 
renowned  flame. 

"  She  was  no  chatelaine,  who  in  the  blooming  glory 
of  her  youth  presided  at  tourneys,  and  awarded  the 
victor's  crown. 

"  Xo  casuistess  in  the  Gay  Science  was  she,  no  lady 
doctrinaire,  who  delivered  her  oracles  in  the  judgment- 
chamber  of  a  Court  of  Love.^ 

"  She,  whom  the  Rabbi  loved,  was  a  woe-begone 
poor  darling,  a  mourning  picture  of  desolation  .  .  . 
and  her  name  was  Jerusalem." 

Jehuda  ben  Halevy,  like  the  Crusaders,  makes  his 
pilgrimage  to  Jeriisalem :  and  there,  amid  the  ruins, 
singfs  a  son":  of  Sion  which  has  become  famous  amonsr 
his  people :  — 

"  That  lay  of  pearled  tears  is  the  wide-famed  La- 
ment, which  is  sung  in  all  the  scattered  tents  of  Jacob 
throughout  the  world. 

"  On  the  ninth  day  of  the  month  which  is  called 
^b,  on  the  anniversary  of  Jerusalem's  destruction  by 
Titus  Vespasianus. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  song  of  Sion,  which  Jehuda  ben 
Hale\y  sang  with  his  dying  breath  amid  the  holy  ruins 
of  Jerusalem. 

"  Barefoot,  and  in  penitential  weeds,  he  sat  there 
upon  the  fragment  of  a  fallen  column  ;  down  to  his 
breast  fell, 

"  Like  a  gray  forest,  his  hair  ;  and  cast  a  weird 


HEINRICH  HEINE  141 

shadow  on  the  face  which  looked  out  through  it,  — 
his  troubled  pale  face,  with  the  spiritual  eyes. 

"  So  he  sat  and  sang,  like  unto  a  seer  out  of  the 
foretime  to  look  upon  ;  Jeremiah,  the  Ancient,  seemed 
to  have  risen  out  of  his  grave. 

"  But  a  bold  Saracen  came  riding  that  way,  aloft 
on  his  barb,  lolling  in  his  saddle,  and  brandishing  a 
naked  javelin  ; 

"  Into  the  breast  of  the  poor  singer  he  plunged  his 
deadly  shaft,  and  shot  away  like  a  winged  shadow. 

"Quietly  flowed  the  Rabbi's  life-blood,  quietly  he 
sang  his  song  to  an  end ;  and  his  last  dying  sigh  was 
Jerusalem !  " 

But,  most  of  all,  Heine  shows  us  this  side  in  a 
strange  poem  describing  a  public  dispute,  before  King 
Pedro  and  his  Court,  between  a  Jewish  and  a  Chris- 
tian champion,  on  the  merits  of  their  respective  faiths. 
In  the  strain  of  the  Jew  all  the  fierceness  of  the  old 
Hebrew  genius,  all  its  rigid  defiant  Monotheism, 
appear : — 

"  Our  God  has  not  died  like  a  poor  innocent  lamb 
for  mankind ;  he  is  no  gushing  philanthropist,  no 
declaimer. 

"  Our  God  is  not  love,  caressing  is  not  his  line  ;  but 
he  is  a  God  of  thunder,  and  he  is  a  God  of  revenge. 

"  The  lightnings  of  his  wrath  strike  inexorably 
every  sinner,  and  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  often 
visited  upon  their  remote  posterity. 

"  Our  God,  he  is  alive,  and  in  his  hall  of  heaven 
he  goes  on  existing  away,  throughout  all  the  eterni- 
ties. 

"  Our  God,  too,  is  a  God  in  robust  health,  no  myth, 
pale  and  thin  as  sacrificial  wafers,  or  as  shadows  by 
Cocytus. 

"  Our  God  is  strong.    In  his  hand  he  upholds  sun, 


142  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

moon,  and  stars ;  thrones  break,  nations  reel  to  and 
fro,  when  he  knits  his  forehead. 

"  Our  God  loves  music,  the  voice  of  the  harp  and 
the  song  of  feasting ;  but  the  sound  of  church-bells  he 
hates,  as  he  hates  the  grunting  of  pigs."  ^ 

Nor  must  Heine's  sweetest  note  be  unheard,  —  his 
plaintive  note,  his  note  of  melancholy.  Here  is  a  strain 
which  came  from  him  as  he  lay,  in  the  winter  night, 
on  his  "mattress-grave  "  at  Paris,  and  let  his  thoughts 
wander  home  to  Germany,  "  the  great  child,  entertain- 
ing herself  with  her  Christmas-tree."  "  Thou  tookest," 
—  he  cries  to  the  German  exile, — 

"  Thou  tookest  thy  flight  towards  sunshine  and  hap- 
piness ;  naked  and  poor  returnest  thou  back.  German 
truth,  German  shirts,  —  one  gets  them  worn  to  tatters 
in  foreign  parts. 

"  Deadly  pale  are  thy  looks,  but  take  comfort,  thou 
art  at  home  !  one  lies  warm  in  German  earth,  warm  as 
by  the  old  pleasant  fireside. 

"  Many  a  one,  alas,  became  crippled,  and  could  get 
home  no  more !  longingly  he  stretches  out  his  arms  ; 
God  have  mercy  upon  him !  "  ^ 

God  have  mercy  upon  him !  for  what  remain  of  the 
days  of  the  years  of  his  life  are  few  and  evil.  "  Can  it 
be  that  I  still  actually  exist?  My  body  is  so  shrunk 
that  there  is  hardly  anything  of  me  left  but  my  voice, 
and  my  bed  makes  me  think  of  the  melodious  grave  of 
the  enchanter  Merlin,  which  is  in  the  forest  of  Broce- 
liand  in  Brittany,  under  high  oaks  whose  tops  shine 
like  green  flames  to  heaven.  Ah,  I  envy  thee  those 
trees,  brother  Merlin,  and  their  fresh  waving !  for  over 
my  mattress-grave  here  in  Paris  no  green  leaves  rustle  ; 
and  early  and  late  I  hear  nothing  but  the  rattle  of 
carriages,  hammering,  scolding,  and  the  jingle  of  the 
piano.  A  grave  without  rest,  death  without  the  privi- 


HEINRICH  HEINE  143 

leges  of  the  departed,  who  have  no  longer  any  need  to 
spend  money,  or  to  write  letters,  or  to  compose  books. 
What  a  melancholy  situation  ! "  ^ 

He  died,  and  has  left  a  blemished  name ;  with  his 
crying  faults,  —  his  intemperate  susceptibility,  his 
unserupulousness  in  passion,  his  inconceivable  attacks 
on  his  enemies,  his  still  more  inconceivable  attacks  on 
his  friends,  his  want  of  generosity,  his  sensuality,  his 
incessant  mocking,  —  how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Not 
only  was  he  not  one  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  "  respectable  " 
people,  he  was  profoundly  f?isrespectable ;  and  not 
even  the  merit  of  not  being  a  Philistine  can  make  up 
for  a  man's  being  that.  To  his  intellectual  deliverance 
there  was  an  addition  of  something  else  wanting,  and 
that  something  else  was  something  immense  :  the  old- 
fashioned,  laborious,  eternally  needful  moral  deliver- 
ance. Goethe  says  that  he  was  deficient  in  love;  to  me 
his  weakness  seems  to  be  not  so  much  a  deficiency  in 
love  as  a  deficiency  in  self-respect,  in  true  dignity  of 
character.  But  on  this  negative  side  of  one's  criticism 
of  a  man  of  great  genius,  I  for  my  part,  when  1  have 
once  clearly  marked  that  this  negative  side  is  and 
must  be  there,  have  no  pleasure  in  dwelling.  I  prefer 
to  say  of  Heine  something  positive.  He  is  not  an  ade- 
quate interpreter  of  the  modern  world.  He  is  only  a 
brilliant  soldier  in  the  Liberation  War  of  humanity. 
But,  such  as  he  is,  he  is  (and  posterity  too,  I  am  quite 
sure,  will  say  this),  in  the  European  poetry  of  that 
quarter  of  a  century  which  follows  the  death  of  Goethe, 
incomparably  the  most  important  figui-e. 

What  a  spendthrift,  one  is  tempted  to  cry,  is 
Nature !  With  what  prodigality,  in  the  march  of  gen- 
erations, she  employs  human  power,  content  to  gather 
almost  always  little  result  from  it,  sometimes  none ! 
Look  at  Byron,  that  Byron  whom  the  present  genera- 


144  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

tion  of  Englishmen  are  forgetting  ;  Byron,  the  greatest 
natural  force,  the  greatest  elementary  power,  I  cannot 
but  think,  which  has  appeared  in  our  literature  since 
Shakespeare.  And  what  became  of  this  wonderful 
production  of  nature  ?  He  shattered  himself,  he  inev- 
itably shattered  himself  to  pieces  against  the  huge, 
black,  cloud-topped,  interminable  precipice  of  British 
Philistinism.  But  BjTon,  it  may  be  said,  was  eminent 
only  by  his  genius,  only  by  his  inborn  force  and  fire  ; 
he  had  not  the  intellectual  equipment  of  a  supreme 
modern  poet ;  except  for  his  genius  he  was  an  ordinary 
nineteenth-century  English  gentleman,  with  little  cul- 
ture and  with  no  ideas.  IVell,  then,  look  at  Heine. 
Heine  had  all  the  cidture  of  Germany ;  in  his  head 
fermented  all  the  ideas  of  modern  Europe.  And  what 
have  we  got  from  Heine  ?  A  half-result,  for  want  of 
moral  balance,  and  of  nobleness  of  soul  and  character. 
That  is  what  I  say  ;  there  is  so  much  power,  so  many 
seem  able  to  i*un  well,  so  many  give  pi'omise  of  run- 
ning well ;  —  so  few  reach  the  goal,  so  few  are  chosen. 
Many  are  called,  few  chosen. 


3  CC.— yp^  J-JPVA.    , 


MARCUS  AUEELIUSi 

Mr.  Mill  2  says,  in  his  book  on  Liberty,  that 
"  Christian  morality  is  in  great  part  merely  a  protest 
against  paganism  ;  its  ideal  is  negative  rather  than 
positive,  passive  rather  than  active."  He  says,  that,  in 
certain  most  important  respects,  "  it  falls  far  below 
the  best  morality  of  the  ancients."  Now,  the  object 
of  systems  of  morality  is  to  take  possession  of  human 
life,  to  save  it  from  being  abandoned  to  passion  or 
allowed  to  drift  at  hazard,  to  give  it  happiness  by 
establishing  it  in  the  practice  of  virtue ;  and  this 
object  they  seek  to  attain  by  prescribing  to  human  life 
fixed  principles  of  action,  fixed  rules  of  conduct.  In 
its  uninspired  as  well  as  in  its  inspired  moments,  in 
its  days  of  languor  and  gloom  as  well  as  in  its  days 
of  sunshine  and  energy,  human  life  has  thus  always  a 
clue  to  follow,  and  may  always  be  making  way  towards 
its  goal.  Christian  morality  has  not  failed  to  supply  to 
human  life  aids  of  this  sort.  It  has  supplied  them  far 
more  abundantly  than  many  of  its  critics  imagine.  The 
most  exquisite  document  after  those  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, of  all  the  documents  the  Christian  spirit  has 
ever  inspired,  —  the  Lnitation^  —  by  no  means  con- 
tains the  whole  of  Christian  morality ;  nay,  the  dis- 
paragers of  this  morality  would  think  themselves  sure 
of  triumphing  if  one  agreed  to  look  for  it  in  the  Imi- 
tation only.  But  even  the  Imitation  is  full  of  pas- 
sages like  these  :  "  Vita  sine  proposito  languida  et 
vaga  est "  ;  —  "  Omni  die  renovare  debemus  propo- 
situm  nostrum,  dicentes :  nunc  hodie  perfecte  inci- 
piamus,  quia  nihil  est  quod   hactenus  fecimus  " ;  — 


146  I^L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  Secundum  propositum  nostrum  est  cursus  profectus 
nostri "' ;  —  "  Raro  etiam  unum  vitium  perfecte  vinci- 
mus,  et  ad  quotidianiim  profectum  non  accendimur"; 
"  Semper  aliquid  eerti  propouendum  est "  ;  "  Tibi  ipsi 
violentiam  frequenter  fac."  (^A  life  without  a  pur- 
pose is  a  languid,  drifting  thing  ;  —  Every  day  we 
ought  to  reneio  our  i^urpose,  saying  to  ourselves: 
This  day  let  us  make  a  sound  heginning,  for  lohat 
we  have  hitherto  done  is  noiight ;  —  Our  improve- 
ment is  in  j)roportion  to  our  purpose  ;  —  We  hardly 
ever  manage  to  get  completely  rid  even  of  one  fault, 
and  do  not  set  our  hearts  on  daily  improvement ;  — 
Always  place  a  definite  purpose  hefore  thee  ;  —  Get 
the  habit  of  mastering  thine  inclination.^  These  are 
moral  precepts,  and  moral  precepts  of  the  best  kind. 
As  rules  to  hold  possession  of  our  conduct,  and  to 
keep  us  in  the  right  course  through  outward  troubles 
and  inward  perplexity,  they  are  equal  to  the  best  ever 
furnished  by  the  great  masters  of  morals  —  Epictetus 
and  Marcus  Aurelius. 

But  moral  rules,  apprehended  as  ideas  first,  and 
•then  rigorously  followed  as  laws,  are,  and  must  be, 
for  the  sage  only.  The  mass  of  mankind  have  neither 
force  of  intellect  enough  to  apprehend  them  clearly  as 
ideas,  nor  force  of  character  enough  to  follow  them 
strictly  as  laws.  The  mass  of  mankind  can  be  carried 
along  a  course  full  of  hardship  for  the  natural  man, 
can  be  borne  over  the  thousand  impediments  of  the 
narrow  way,  only  by  the  tide  of  a  joyful  and  bound- 
ing emotion.  It  is  impossible  to  rise  from  reading 
Epictetus^  or  Marcus  Aurelius  without  a  sense  of 
constraint  and  melancholy,  without  feeling  that  the 
burden  laid  upon  man  is  well-nigh  greater  than  he  can 
bear.  Honor  to  the  sages  who  have  felt  this,  and  yet 
have  borne  it  1  Yet,  even  for  the  sage,  this  sense  of 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  147 

labor  and  sorrow  in  his  march  towards  the  goal  con- 
stitutes a  relative  inferiority ;  the  noblest  souls  of 
whatever  creed,  the  pagan  Empedocles  ^  as  well  as  the 
Christian  Paul,  have  insisted  on  the  necessity  of  an 
inspiration,  a  joyful  emotion,  to  make  moral  action 
perfect ;  an  obscure  indication  of  this  necessity  is  the 
one  drop  of  truth  in  the  ocean  of  verbiage  with  which 
the  controversy  on  justification  by  faith  has  flooded 
the  world.  But,  for  the  ordinary  man,  this  sense  of 
labor  and  sorrow  constitutes  an  absolute  disqualifica- 
tion ;  it  paralyzes  him  ;  under  the  weight  of  it,  he  can- 
not make  way  towards  the  goal  at  all.  The  paramount 
virtue  of  religion  is,  that  it  has  lighted  up  morality  ; 
that  it  has  supjjlied  the  emotion  and  inspiration  need- 
ful for  carrying  the  sage  along  the  narrow  way  per- 
fectly, for  carrying  the  ordinary  man  along  it  at  all. 
Even  the  religions  with  most  dross  in  them  have  had 
something  of  this  virtue ;  but  the  Christian  religion 
manifests  it  with  unexampled  splendor.  "  Lead  me, 
Zeus  and  Destiny  !  "  says  the  prayer  of  Epictetus, 
*'  whithersoever  I  am  appointed  to  go ;  I  will  follow 
without  wavering ;  even  though  I  turn  coward  and 
shrink,  I  shall  have  to  follow  all  the  same."  ^  The 
fortitude  of  that  is  for  the  strong,  for  the  few ;  even 
for  them  the  spiritual  atmosphere  with  which  it  sur- 
rounds them  is  bleak  and  gray.  But,  "  Let  thy  loving 
spirit  lead  me  forth  into  the  land  of  righteousness  " ;  ^ 
■ — "  The  Lord  shall  be  unto  thee  an  everlasting  light, 
and  thy  God  thy  glory  "  ;  *  —  "  Unto  you  that  fear 
my  name  shall  the  sun  of  righteousness  arise  with 
healing  in  his  wings,"  ^  says  the  Old  Testament ; 
"  Born,  not  of  blood,  nor  of  the  will  of  the  flesh,  nor 
of  the  will  of  man,  but  of  God  "  ;  ^  —  "  Except  a  man 
be  born  again,  he  cannot  see  the  kingdom  of  God  "  ;  ^ 
— "  Whatsoever   is   born   of    God,   overcometh  the 


U8  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

world,"  ^  says  the  New.  The  ray  of  sunshine  is  there, 
the  glow  of  a  divine  warmth ;  —  the  austerity  of  the 
sage  melts  away  under  it,  the  paralysis  of  the  weak  is 
healed  :  he  who  is  vivified  by  it  renews  his  strength ; 
"  all  thmgs  are  possible  to  him  "  ;  ^  "  he  is  a  new  crea- 
ture." ^ 

Epietetus  says  :  "  Every  matter  has  two  handles, 
one  of  which  will  bear  taking  hold  of,  the  other  not. 
If  thy  brother  sin  against  thee,  lay  not  hold  of  the 
matter  by  this,  that  he  sins  against  thee  ;  for  by  this 
handle  the  matter  will  not  bear  taking  hold  of.  But 
rather  lay  hold  of  it  by  this,  that  he  is  thy  brother, 
thy  born  mate  ;  and  thou  wilt  take  hold  of  it  by  what 
will  bear  handling."  *  Jesus,  being  asked  whether  a 
man  is  bound  to  forgive  his  brother  as  often  as  seven 
times,  answers :  "  I  say  not  imto  thee,  until  seven 
times,  but  until  seventy  times  seven."  ^  Epietetus 
here  suggests  to  the  reason  grounds  for  forgiveness 
of  injuries  which  Jesus  does  not :  but  it  is  vain  to  say 
that  Epietetus  is  on  that  account  a  better  moralist 
than  Jesus,  if  the  warmth,  the  emotion,  of  Jesus's  an- 
swer fires  his  hearer  to  the  practice  of  forgiveness  of 
injuries,  while  the  thought  in  Epictetus's  leaves  him 
cold.  So  with  Christian  morality  in  general :  its  dis- 
tinction is  not  that  it  propounds  the  maxim,  "  Thou 
shalt  love  God  and  thy  neighbor,"  ^  with  more  devel- 
opment, closer  reasoning,  truer  sincerity,  than  other 
moral  systems  ;  it  is  that  it  propounds  this  maxim 
with  an  inspiration  which  wonderfully  catches  the 
hearer  and  makes  him  act  upon  it.  It  is  because  Mr. 
Mill  has  attained  to  the  perception  of  truths  of  this 
nature,  that  he  is,  —  instead  of  being,  like  the  school 
from  which  he  proceeds,  doomed  to  sterility, — a  writer 
of  distinguished  mark  and  influence,  a  writer  deserv- 
ing all  attention  and  respect ;  it  is  (I  must  be  par- 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  149 

doned  for  saying)  because  he  Is  not  sufficiently  leav- 
ened with  them,  that  he  falls  just  short  of  being  a 
great  writer. 

That  which  gives  to  the  moral  writings  of  the  Em- 
peror Marcus  Aurelius  their  peculiar  character  and 
charm,  is  their  being  suffused  and  softened  by  some- 
thing of  this  very  sentiment  whence  Christian  morality- 
draws  its  best  power.  Mr.  Long  ^  has  recently  pub- 
lished in  a  convenient  form  a  translation  of  these 
writings,  and  has  thus  enabled  English  readers  to 
judge  Marcus  Aurelius  for  themselves;  he  has 
rendered  his  countrymen  a  real  service  by  so  doing. 
Mr.  Long's  reputation  as  a  scholar  is  a  sufficient 
guarantee  of  the  general  fidelity  and  accuracy  of  his 
translation ;  on  these  matters,  besides,  I  am  hardly 
entitled  to  speak,  and  my  praise  is  of  no  value.  But 
that  for  which  I  and  the  rest  of  the  unlearned  may 
venture  to  praise  Mr.  Long  is  this:  that  he  treats 
Marcus  Aurelius's  writings,  as  he  treats  all  the  other 
remains  of  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity  which  he 
touches,  not  as  a  dead  and  dry  matter  of  learning,  but 
as  documents  with  a  side  of  modern  applicability  and 
living  interest,  and  valuable  mainly  so  far  as  this  side 
in  them  can  be  made  clear ;  that  as  in  his  notes  on 
Plutarch's  Roman  Lives  he  deals  with  the  modern 
epoch  of  Caesar  and  Cicero,  not  as  food  for  schoolboys, 
but  as  food  for  men,  and  men  engaged  in  the  current 
of  contemporary  life  and  action,  so  in  his  remarks  and 
essays  on  Marcus  Aurelius  he  treats  this  truly  modern 
striver  and  thinker  not  as  a  Classical  Dictionary  hero, 
but  as  a  present  source  from  which  to  draw  "  example 
of  life,  and  instruction  of  manners."  Why  may  not 
a  son  of  Dr.  Arnold  ^  say,  what  might  naturally  here 
be  said  by  any  other  critic,  that  in  this  lively  and 
fruitful   way  of  considering  the  men  and  affairs  of 


150  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  Mr.  Long  resembles  Dr. 
Arnold  ? 

One  or  two  little  complaints,  however,  I  have  against 
Mr.  Long,  and  I  will  get  them  off  my  mind  at  once. 
In  the  first  place,  why  could  he  not  have  found  gentler 
and  juster  terms  to  describe  the  translation  of  his  pred- 
ecessor, Jeremy  Collier,^ — the  redoubtable  enemy  of 
stage  plays,  —  than  these :  "  a  most  coarse  and  vulgar 
copy  of  the  original  ?  "  As  a  matter  of  taste,  a  trans- 
lator should  deal  leniently  with  his  predecessor ;  but 
putting  that  out  of  the  question,  Mr.  Long's  language 
is  a  great  deal  too  hard.  Most  English  people  who  knew 
Marcus  Aurelius  before  Mr.  Long  appeared  as  his 
introducer,  knew  him  through  Jeremy  Collier.  And 
the  acquaintance  of  a  man  like  Marcus  Aurelius  is 
such  an  imperishable  benefit,  that  one  can  never  lose 
a  peculiar  sense  of  obligation  towards  the  man  who 
confers  it.  Apart  from  this  claim  upon  one's  tender- 
ness, however,  Jeremy  Collier's  version  deserves  re- 
spect for  its  genuine  spirit  and  vigor,  the  spirit  and 
vigor  of  the  age  of  Dryden.  Jeremy  Collier  too,  like 
Mr.  Long,  regarded  in  Mai'cus  Aurelius  the  living 
moralist,  and  not  the  dead  classic ;  and  his  warmth  of 
feeling  gave  to  his  style  an  impetuosity  and  rhythm 
which  from  Mr.  Long's  style  (I  do  not  blame  it  on 
that  account)  are  absent.  Let  us  place  the  two  side 
by  side.  The  Impressive  opening  of  Marcus  Aurelius's 
fifth  book,  Mr.  Long  translates  thus  :  — 

"  Li  the  morning  when  thou  risest  unwillingly,  let 
this  thought  be  present:  I  am  rising  to  the  work  of 
a  human  being.  Why  then  am  I  dissatisfied  if  I  am 
going  to  do  the  things  for  which  I  exist  and  for  which 
I  was  brought  into  the  world  ?  Or  have  I  been  made 
for  this,  to  lie  in  the  bed  clothes  and  keep  myself 
warm  ?  —  But    this    is    more    pleasant.  —  Dost    thou 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  151 

exist  then  to  take  thy  pleasure,  and  not  at  all  for  action 
or  exertion?" 

Jeremy  Collier  has  :  — 

"  When  you  find  an  unwillingness  to  rise  early  in 
the  morning,  make  this  short  speech  to  yourself :  '  I  am 
getting  up  now  to  do  the  business  of  a  man ;  and  am 
I  out  of  humor  for  going  about  that  which  I  was  made 
for,  and  for  the  sake  of  which  I  was  sent  into  the 
world?  Was  I  then  designed  for  nothing  but  to  doze 
and  batten  beneath  the  counterpane?  I  thought 
action  had  been  the  end  of  your  being.'  " 

In  another  striking  passage,  again,  Mr.  Long  has :  — 

"  No  longer  wonder  at  hazard  ;  for  neither  wilt  thou 
read  thy  own  memoirs,  nor  the  acts  of  the  ancient 
Romans  and  Hellenes,  and  the  selections  from  books 
which  thou  wast  reserving  for  thy  old  age.  Hasten 
then  to  the  end  which  thou  hast  before  thee,  and, 
throwing  away  idle  hopes,  come  to  thine  own  aid,  if 
thou  carest  at  all  for  thyself,  while  it  is  in  thy  power."  i 

Here  his  despised  predecessor  has :  — 

"  Don't  go  too  far  in  your  books  and  overgrasp 
yourself.  Alas,  you  have  no  time  left  to  peruse  your 
diary,  to  read  over  the  Greek  and  Roman  history : 
come,  don't  flatter  and  deceive  yourself ;  look  to  the 
main  chance,  to  the  end  and  design  of  reading,  and 
mind  life  more  than  notion :  I  say,  if  you  have  a  kind- 
ness for  your  person,  drive  at  the  practice  and  help 
youself,  for  that  is  in  your  own  power." 

It  seems  to  me  that  here  for  style  and  force  Jeremy 
Collier  can  (to  say  the  least)  perfectly  stand  compar- 
ison with  Mr.  Long.  Jeremy  Collier's  real  defect  as  a 
translator  is  not  his  coarseness  and  vulgarity,  but  his 
imperfect  acquaintance  with  Greek ;  this  is  a  serious 
defect,  a  fatal  one  ;  it  rendered  a  translation  like  Mr. 
Long's  necessary.  Jeremy  Collier's  work  will  now  be 


152  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

forgotten,  and  Mr.  Long  stands  master  of  the  field ; 
but  he  may  be  content,  at  any  rate,  to  leave  his  pred- 
ecessor's grave  unharmed,  even  if  he  will  not  throw 
upon  it,  in  passing,  a  handful  of  kindly  earth. 

Another  complaint  I  have  against  Mr.  Long  is,  that 
he  is  not  quite  idiomatic  and  simple  enough.  It  is  a 
little  formal,  at  least,  if  not  pedantic,  to  say  Ethic  and 
Dialectic,  instead  of  Ethics  and  Dialectics,  and  to 
say  "  Hellenes  and  Romans  "  instead  of  "  Greeks  and 
Romans."  And  why,  too,  —  the  name  of  Antoninus 
being  preoccupied  by  Antoninus  Pius/  —  will  Mr. 
Long  call  his  author  Marcus  Antoninus  instead  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  f  Small  as  these  matters  appear, 
they  are  important  when  one  has  to  deal  with  the 
general  public,  and  not  with  a  small  circle  of  scholars  ; 
and  it  is  the  general  public  that  the  translator  of  a 
short  masterpiece  on  morals,  such  as  is  the  book  of 
Marcus  Aurelius,  should  have  in  view  ;  his  aim  shoiild 
be  to  make  Marcus  Aurelius's  work  as  popular  as  the 
Ifnitation,  and  Marcus  Aurelius's  name  as  familiar  as 
Socrates's.  In  rendering  or  naming  him,  therefore, 
punctilious  accuracy  of  phrase  is  not  so  much  to  be 
sought  as  accessibility  and  currency ;  everything  which 
may  best  enable  the  Emperor  and  his  precepts  volitare 
per  ora  virum."^  It  is  essential  to  render  him  in  lan- 
guage perfectly  plain  and  improfessional,  and  to  call 
him  by  the  name  by  which  he  is  best  and  most  dis- 
tinctly known.  The  translators  of  the  Bible  talk 
of  pence  and  not  denarii,  and  the  admirers  of  Voltaire 
do  not  celebrate  him  under  the  name  of  Arouet.^ 

But,  after  these  trifling  complaints  are  made,  one 
must  end,  as  one  began,  in  unfeigned  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Long  for  his  excellent  and  substantial  reproduction  in 
English  of  an  invaluable  work.  In  general  the  sub- 
stantiality, soundness,  and  precision  of  Mr.  Long's 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  153 

rendering  are  (I  will  venture,  after  all,  to  give  my 
opinion  about  them)  as  conspicuous  as  the  living  spirit 
with  which  he  treats  antiquity ;  and  these  qualities  are 
particularly  desirable  in  the  translator  of  a  work  like 
that  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  of  which  the  language  is  often 
corrupt,  almost  always  hard  and  obscure.  Any  one 
who  wants  to  appreciate  Mr.  Long's  merits  as  a  trans- 
lator may  read,  in  the  original  and  in  Mr.  Long's 
translation,  the  seventh  chapter  of  the  tenth  book ;  he 
will  see  how,  through  all  the  dubiousness  and  involved 
manner  of  the  Greek,  Mr.  Long  has  firmly  seized  upon 
the  clear  thought  which  is  certainly  at  the  bottom  of 
that  troubled  wording,  and,  in  distinctly  rendering  this 
thought,  has  at  the  same  time  thrown  round  its  expres- 
sion a  characteristic  shade  of  painf  ulness  and  difficulty 
which  just  suits  it.  And  Marcus  Aurelius's  book  is  one 
which,  when  it  is  rendered  so  accurately  as  Mr.  Long 
renders  it,  even  those  who  know  Greek  tolerably  well 
may  choose  to  read  rather  in  the  translation  than  in 
the  original.  For  not  only  are  the  contents  here  in- 
comparably more  valuable  than  the  external  form,  but 
this  form,  the  Greek  of  a  Roman,  is  not  exactly  one 
of  those  styles  which  have  a  physiognomy,  which  are 
an  essential  part  of  their  author,  which  stamp  an 
indelible  impression  of  him  on  the  reader's  mind. 
An  old  Lyons  commentator  finds,  indeed,  in  Marcus 
Aurelius's  Greek,  something  characteristic,  something 
specially  firm  and  imperial ;  but  I  think  an  ordinary 
mortal  will  hardly  find  this  :  he  will  find  crabbed  Greek, 
without  any  great  charm  of  distinct  physiognomy. 
The  Greek  of  Thucydides  and  Plato  has  this  charm, 
and  he  who  reads  them  in  a  translation,  however  accu- 
rate, loses  it,  and  loses  much  in  losing  it ;  but  the  Greek 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  like  the  Greek  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, and  even  more  than  the  Greek  of  the  New 


154  ]\L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

Testament,  Is  wanting  in  it.  If  one  could  be  assured 
that  the  English  Testament  were  made  perfectly  accu- 
rate, one  might  be  almost  content  never  to  open  a  Greek 
Testament  again ;  and,  Mr.  Long's  version  of  Marcus 
Aurelius  being  what  it  is,  an  Englishman  who  reads 
to  live,  and  does  not  live  to  read,  may  henceforth  let 
the  Greek  original  repose  upon  its  shelf. 

The  man  whose  thoughts  Mr.  Long  has  thus  faith- 
fully reproduced,  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  figure 
in  history.  He  is  one  of  those  consoling  and  hope- 
inspiring  marks,  which  stand  forever  to  remind  our 
weak  and  easily  discouraged  race  how  high  human 
goodness  and  perseverance  have  once  been  carried, 
and  may  be  carried  again.  The  interest  of  mankind  is 
peculiarly  attracted  by  examples  of  signal  goodness  in 
high  places ;  for  that  testimony  to  the  worth  of  good- 
ness is  the  most  striking  which  is  borne  by  those  to 
whom  all  the  means  of  pleasure  and  self-indulgence 
lay  open,  by  those  who  had  at  their  command  the  king- 
doms of  the  world  and  the  glory  of  them.  Marcus 
Aurelius  was  the  ruler  of  the  grandest  of  empires  ; 
and  he  was  one  of  the  best  of  men.  Besides  him,  his- 
tory presents  one  or  two  sovereigns  eminent  for  their 
goodness,  such  as  Saint  Louis  or  Alfred.  But  Marcus 
Aurelius  has,  for  us  moderns,  this  great  superiority  in 
interest  over  Saint  Louis  or  Alfred,  that  he  lived  and 
acted  in  a  state  of  society  modern  by  its  essential  char- 
acteristics, in  an  epoch  akin  to  our  own,  in  a  brilliant 
centre  of  civilization.  Trajan  talks  of  "  our  enlight- 
ened age "  just  as  glibly  as  the  Times  ^  talks  of  it. 
Marcus  Aurelius  thus  becomes  for  us  a  man  like  our- 
selves, a  man  in  all  things  tempted  as  we  are.  Saint 
Louis  ^  inhabits  an  atmosphere  of  mediaeval  Catholi- 
cism, which  the  man  of  the  nineteenth  century  may 
admire,  indeed,  may  even  passionately  wish  to  inhabit, 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  155 

but  which,  strive  as  he  will,  he  cannot  really  inhabit. 
Alfred  belongs  to  a  state  of  society  (I  say  it  with  all 
deference  to  the  Saturday  Remew  ^  critic  who  keeps 
such  jealous  watch  over  the  honor  of  our  Saxon  ances- 
tors) half  barbarous.  Neither  Alfred  nor  Saint  Louis 
can  be  morally  and  intellectually  as  near  to  us  as 
Marcus  Aurelius. 

The  record  of  the  outward  life  of  this  admirable 
man  has  in  it  little  of  striking  incident.  He  was  born 
at  Rome  on  the  26th  of  April,  in  the  year  121  of  the 
Christian  era.  He  was  nephew  and  son-in-law  to  his 
predecessor  on  the  throne,  Antoninus  Pius.  When 
Antoninus  died,  he  was  forty  years  old,  but  from  the 
time  of  his  earliest  manhood  he  had  assisted  in  admin- 
istering public  affairs.  Then,  after  his  uncle's  death 
in  161,  for  nineteen  years  he  reigned  as  emperor. 
The  barbarians  were  pressing  on  the  Roman  frontier, 
and  a  great  part  of  Marcus  Aurelius's  nineteen  years 
of  reign  was  passed  in  cam])aigning.  His  absences 
from  Rome  were  numerous  and  long.  We  hear  of  him 
in  Asia  Minor,  Syria,  Egypt,  Greece  ;  but,  above  all, 
in  the  countries  on  the  Danube,  where  the  war  with 
the  barbarians  was  going  on,  —  in  Austria,  Moravia, 
Hungary.  In  these  countries  much  of  his  Journal 
seems  to  have  been  written  ;  parts  of  it  are  dated  from 
them  ;  and  there,  a  few  weeks  before  his  fifty -ninth 
birthday,  he  fell  sick  and  died.^  The  record  of  him  on 
which  his  fame  chiefly  rests  is  the  record  of  his  inward 
life,  —  his  Journal,  ov  Commentaries,  or  Meditations, 
or  Thoughts,  for  by  all  these  names  has  the  work  been 
called.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  the  records  of 
his  outward  life  is  that  which  the  first  book  of  this 
work  supplies,  where  he  gives  an  account  of  his  edu- 
cation, recites  the  names  of  those  to  whom  he  is  in- 
debted for  it,  and  enumerates  his  obligations  to  each 


156  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  them.  It  is  a  refreshing  and  consoling  picture,  a 
priceless  treasure  for  those,  who,  sick  of  the  "  wild  and 
dreamlike  trade  of  blood  and  guile,"  which  seems  to 
be  nearly  the  whole  of  what  history  has  to  offer  to  our 
view,  seek  eagerly  for  that  substratum  of  right  think- 
ing and  well-doing  which  in  all  ages  must  surely  have 
somewhere  existed,  for  without  it  the  continued  life  of 
humanity  would  have  been  impossible.  "  From  my 
mother  I  learnt  piety  and  beneficence,  and  abstinence 
not  only  from  evU  deeds  but  even  from  evil  thoughts  ; 
and  further,  simplicity  in  my  way  of  living,  far  re- 
moved from  the  habits  of  the  rich."  Let  us  remember 
that,  the  next  time  we  are  reading  the  sixth  satire  of 
Juvenal.^  "  From  my  tutor  I  learnt "  (hear  it,  ye  tutors 
of  princes  I  )  "endurance  of  labor,  and  to  want  little 
and  to  work  with  ni}'  own  hands,  and  not  to  meddle 
with  other  people's  afPairs,  and  not  to  be  ready  to  lis- 
ten to  slander."  The  vices  and  foibles  of  the  Greek 
sophist  or  rhetorician  —  the  Grcecnlns  esvriens  ^  — 
are  in  everybody's  mind  ;  but  he  who  reads  Marcus 
Aurelius's  account  of  his  Greek  teachers  and  masters, 
will  understand  how  it  is  that,  in  spite  of  the  vices 
and  foibles  of  individual  Grceadi^  the  education  of  the 
human  race  owes  to  Greece  a  debt  which  can  never  be 
overrated.  The  vague  and  colorless  praise  of  history 
leaves  on  the  mind  hardly  any  impression  of  Antoni- 
nus Pius  :  it  is  only  from  the  private  memoranda  of 
his  nephew  that  we  learn  what  a  disciplined,  hard- 
working, gentle,  wise,  virtuous  man  he  was ;  a  man 
who,  perhaps,  interests  mankind  less  than  his  immor- 
tal nephew  only  because  he  has  left  in  writing  no  record 
of  his  inner  life,  —  cat^et  qvia  vote  sacro? 

Of  the  outward  life  and  circumstances  of  Marcus 
Aurelius,  beyond  these  notices  which  he  has  himself  sup- 
plied, there  are  few  of  much  interest  and  importance. 


•     MARCUS  AURELIUS  157 

There  is  the  fine  anecdote  of  his  speech  when  he  heard 
of  the  assassination  of  the  revolted  Avidius  Cassius,! 
against  whom  he  was  marching  ;  he  was  sorry ^  he  said, 
to  he  deprived  of  the  pleasiire  of  pardonincj  him.  And 
there  are  one  or  two  more  anecdotes  of  him  which 
show  the  same  spirit.  But  the  great  record  for  the 
outward  life  of  a  man  who  has  left  such  a  record  of 
his  lofty  inward  aspirations  as  that  which  Marcus 
Aurelius  has  left,  is  the  clear  consenting  voice  of  all 
his  contemporaries,  —  high  and  low,  friend  and  enemy, 
pagan  and  Christian,  —  in  praise  of  his  sincerity,  jus- 
tice, and  goodness.  The  world's  charity  does  not  err 
on  the  side  of  excess,  and  here  was  a  man  occupying 
the  most  conspicuous  station  in  the  world,  and  profess- 
ing the  highest  possible  standard  of  conduct ;  —  yet  the 
world  was  obliged  to  declare  that  he  walked  worthily 
of  his  profession.  Long  after  his  death,  his  bust  was 
to  be  seen  in  the  houses  of  private  men  through  the 
wide  Roman  empire.  It  may  be  the  vulgar  part  of 
human  nature  which  busies  itself  with  the  semblance 
and  doings  of  living  sovereigns,  it  is  its  nobler  part 
which  busies  itself  with  those  of  the  dead  ;  these  busts 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  in  the  homes  of  Gaul,  Britain, 
and  Italy,  bear  witness,  not  to  the  inmates'  frivolous 
curiosity  about  princes  and  palaces,  but  to  their  rever- 
ential memory  of  the  passage  of  a  great  man  upon 
the  earth. 

Two  things,  however,  before  one  turns  from  the  out- 
ward to  the  inward  life  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  force 
themselves  upon  one's  notice,  and  demand  a  word  of 
comment ;  he  persecuted  the  Christians,  and  he  had 
for  his  son  the  vicious  and  brutal  Commodus.^  The 
persecution  at  Lyons,  in  which  Attalus  ^  and  Pothinus 
suffered,  the  persecution  at  Smyrna,  in  which  Polycarp  * 
suffered,  took  place  in  his  reign.  Of  his  humanity,  of 


158  IlL\TTHEW  ARNOLD     ' 

his  tolerance,  of  his  horror  of  cruelty  and  violence,  of 
his  wish  to  refrain  fi-om  severe  measures  against  the 
Christians,  of  his  anxiety  to  temper  the  severity  of 
these  measures  when  they  appeared  to  him  indispen- 
sable, there  is  no  doubt :  but,  on  the  one  hand,  it  is 
certain  that  the  letter,  attributed  to  him,  directing 
that  no  Christian  should  be  punished  for  being  a 
Christian,  is  spurious;  it  is  almost  certain  that  his 
alleged  answer  to  the  authorities  of  Lj'ons,  in  which 
he  directs  that  Christians  persisting  in  their  profession 
shall  be  dealt  with  according  to  law,  is  genuine.  Mr. 
Long  seems  inclined  to  try  and  throw  doubt  over  the 
persecution  at  Lyons,  by  pointing  out  that  the  letter 
of  the  Lyons  Christians  relating  it,  alleges  it  to  have 
been  attended  by  miraculous  and  incredible  incidents. 
"  A  man,"  he  says,  "  can  only  act  consistently  by 
accepting  all  this  letter  or  rejecting  it  all,  and  we 
cannot  blame  him  for  either."  But  it  is  contrary  to  all 
experience  to  say  that  because  a  fact  is  related  with 
incorrect  additions,  and  embellishments,  therefore  it 
probably  never  happened  at  all ;  or  that  it  is  not,  in 
general,  easy  for  an  impartial  mind  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  fact  and  the  embellishments.  I  cannot  doubt 
that  the  Lyons  persecution  took  place,  and  that  the 
punishment  of  Christians  for  being  Christians  was 
sanctioned  by  Marcus  Aurelius.  But  then  I  must  add 
that  nine  modern  readers  out  of  ten,  when  they  read 
this,  will,  I  believe,  have  a  perfectly  false  notion  of 
what  the  moral  action  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  in  sanc- 
tioning that  punishment,  really  was.  They  imagine 
Trajan,  or  Antoninus  Pius,  or  Marcus  Aurelius,  fresh 
from  the  perusal  of  the  Gospel,  fully  aware  of  the 
spirit  and  holiness  of  the  Christian  saints,  ordering 
their  extermination  because  he  loved  darkness  rather 
than  light.  Far  from  this,  the  Christianity  which  these 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  159 

emperors  aimed  at  repressing  was,  in  their  conception 
of  it,  something  philosophically  contemptible,  polit- 
ically subversive,  and  morally  abominable.  As  men, 
they  sincerely  regarded  it  much  as  well-conditioned 
people,  with  us,  regard  Mormonism  ;  as  rulers,  they 
regarded  it  much  as  Liberal  statesmen,  with  us, 
regard  the  Jesuits.  A  kind  of  Mormonism,  constituted 
as  a  vast  secret  society,  with  obscure  aims  of  political 
and  social  subversion,  was  what  Antoninus  Pius  and 
Marcus  iVurelius  believed  themselves  to  be  repressing 
when  they  punished  Christians.  The  early  Christian 
apologists  again  and  again  declare  to  us  under  what 
odious  imputations  the  Christians  lay,  how  general 
was  the  belief  that  these  imputations  were  well-grounded, 
how  sincere  was  the  horror  which  the  belief  inspired. 
The  multitude,  convinced  that  the  Christians  were 
atheists  who  ate  human  flesh  and  thought  incest  no 
crime,  displayed  against  them  a  fury  so  passionate  as 
to  embarrass  and  alarm  their  rulers.  The  severe 
expressions  of  Tacitus,  exitiabilis  svperstitio  —  odio 
humanl  generis  convicti}  show  how  deeply  the  prej- 
udices of  the  multitude  imbued  the  educated  class 
also.  One  asks  oneself  with  astonishment  how  a  doc- 
trine so  benign  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ  can  have  in- 
curred misrepresentation  so  monstrous.  The  inner  and 
moving  cause  of  the  misrepresentation  lay,  no  doubt, 
in  this,  —  that  Christianity  was  a  new  spirit  in  the 
Roman  world,  destined  to  act  in  that  world  as  its  dis- 
solvent ;  and  it  was  inevitable  that  Christianity  in  the 
Roman  world,  like  democracy  in  the  modern  world, 
like  every  new  spirit  with  a  similar  mission  assigned 
to  it,  should  at  its  first  appearance  occasion  an  in- 
stinctive shrinking  and  repugnance  in  the  world  which 
it  was  to  dissolve.  The  outer  and  palpable  causes  of 
the  misrepresentation  were,  for  the  Roman  public  at 


160  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

large,  the  confounding  of  the  Christians  with  the  Jews, 
that  isolated,  fierce,  and  stubborn  race,  whose  stub- 
bornness, fierceness,  and  isolation,  real  as  they  were, 
the  fancy  of  a  civilized  Roman  yet  further  exaggerated ; 
the  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  novelty  which  sur- 
rounded the  Christian  rites ;  the  very  simplicity  of 
Christian  theism.  For  the  Roman  statesman,  the  cause 
of  mistake  lay  in  that  character  of  secret  assemblages 
which  the  meetings  of  the  Christian  community  wore, 
under  a  State-system  as  jealous  of  unauthorized  asso- 
ciations as  is  the  State-system  of  modern  France. 

A  Roman  of  Marcus  Aurelius's  time  and  position 
could  not  well  see  the  Christians  except  through  the 
mist  of  these  prejudices.  Seen  through  such  a  mist,  the 
Christians  appeared  with  a  thousand  faults  not  their 
own  ;  but  it  has  not  been  sufficiently  remarked  that 
faults  really  their  own  many  of  them  assuredly  ap- 
peared with  besides,  faults  especially  likely  to  strike 
such  an  observer  as  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  to  confirm 
him  in  the  prejudices  of  his  race,  station,  and  rearing. 
We  look  back  upon  Christianity  after  it  has  proved 
what  a  future  it  bore  within  it,  and  for  us  the  sole 
representatives  of  its  early  struggles  are  the  pure  and 
devoted  sj^irits  through  whom  it  proved  this  ;  Marcus 
Aurelius  saw  it  with  its  future  yet  unshown,  and  with 
the  tares  among  its  professed  progeny  not  less  con- 
spicuous than  the  wheat.  Who  can  doubt  that  among 
the  professing  Christians  of  the  second  century,  as 
among  the  professing  Christians  of  the  nineteenth, 
there  was  plenty  of  folly,  plenty  of  rabid  nonsense, 
plenty  of  gross  fanaticism  ?  who  will  even  venture  to 
affirm  that,  separated  in  great  measure  from  thfe  intel- 
lect and  civilization  of  the  world  for  one  or  two  cen- 
turies, Christianity,  wonderful  as  have  been  its  fruits, 
had  the  development  perfectly  worthy  of  its  inestimable 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  161 

germ?  Who  will  venture  to  affirm  that,  by  the  alli- 
ance of  Christianity  with  the  virtue  and  intelligence 
of  men  like  the  Antonines,  —  of  the  best  product  of 
Greek  and  Roman  civilization,  while  Greek  and  Roman 
civilization  had  yet  life  and  power,  —  Christianity  and 
the  world,  as  well  as  the  Antonines  themselves,  would 
not  have  been  gainers  ?  That  alliance  was  not  to  be. 
The  Antonines  lived  and  died  with  an  utter  miscon- 
ception of  Christianity  ;  Christianity  grew  up  in  the 
Catacombs,  not  on  the  Palatine.  And  Marcus  Aure- 
lius  incurs  no  moral  reproach  by  having  authorized 
the  punishment  of  the  Christians  ;  he  does  not  thereby 
become  in  the  least  what  we  mean  by  a  persecutor. 
One  may  concede  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
see  Christianity  as  it  really  was  ;  —  as  impossible  as 
for  even  the  moderate  and  sensible  Fleury  ^  to  see  the 
Antonines  as  they  really  were  ;  —  one  may  concede 
that  the  point  of  view  from  which  Christianity  ap- 
peared something  anti-civil  and  anti-social,  which  the 
State  had  the  faculty  to  judge  and  the  duty  to  sup- 
press, was  inevitably  his.  Still,  however,  it  remains  true 
that  this  sage,  who  made  perfection  his  aim  and  rea- 
son his  law,  did  Christianity  an  immense  injustice  and 
rested  in  an  idea  of  State-attributes  which  was  illusive. 
And  this  is,  in  truth,  characteristic  of  Marcus  Aure- 
lius,  that  he  is  blameless,  yet,  in  a  certain  sense,  un- 
fortunate; in  his  character,  beautiful  as  it  is,  there  is 
something  melancholy,  circumscribed,  and  ineffectual. 
For  of  his  having  such  a  son  as  Commodus,  too,  one 
must  say  that  he  is  not  to  be  blamed  on  that  account, 
but  that  he  is  unfortunate.  Disposition  and  temper- 
ament are  inexplicable  things ;  there  are  natures  on 
which  the  best  education  and  example  are  thrown 
away ;  excellent  fathers  may  have,  without  any  fault 
of  theirs,  incurably  vicious  sons.  It  is  to  be  remem- 


162  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

bered,  also,  that  Commodus  was  left,  at  the  perilous 
age  of  nineteen,  master  of  the  world  ;  while  his  father, 
at  that  age,  was  but  beginning  a  twenty  years'  ap- 
prenticeship to  wisdom,  labor,  and  self-command,  under 
the  sheltering  teachership  of  his  uncle  Antoninus. 
Commodus  was  a  prince  apt  to  be  led  by  favorites  ; 
and  if  the  story  is  true  which  says  that  he  left,  all 
through  his  reign,  the  Christians  untroubled,  and  as- 
cribes this  lenity  to  the  influence  of  his  mistress  Marcia, 
it  shows  that  he  could  be  led  to  good  as  well  as  to  evil. 
But  for  such  a  nature  to  be  left  at  a  critical  age  with 
absolute  power,  and  wholly  without  good  counsel  and 
direction,  was  the  more  fatal.  Still  one  cannot  help 
wishing  that  the  example  of  Marcus  Aurelius  could  have 
availed  more  with  his  own  only  son.  One  cannot  but 
think  that  with  such  virtue  as  his  there  should  go, 
too,  the  ardor  which  removes  mountains,  and  that 
the  ardor  which  removes  mountains  might  have  even 
won  Commodus.  The  word  ineffectual  again  rises  to 
one's  mind ;  Marcus  Aurelius  saved  his  own  soul  by 
his  righteousness,  and  he  could  do  no  more.  Happy 
they  who  can  do  this  I  but  still  happier,  who  can  do 
more ! 

Yet,  when  one  passes  from  his  outward  to  his  in- 
ward life,  when  one  turns  over  the  pages  of  his  3Ied- 
itations,  —  entries  jotted  down  from  day  to  day,  amid 
the  business  of  the  city  or  the  fatigues  of  the  camp, 
for  his  own  guidance  and  support,  meant  for  no  eye 
but  his  own,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at  style, 
with  no  care,  even,  for  correct  writing,  not  to  be  sur- 
passed for  naturalness  and  sincerity,  —  all  disposition 
to  carp  and  cavil  dies  away,  and  one  is  overpowered 
by  the  charm  of  a  character  of  such  purity,  delicacy, 
and  virtue.  He  fails  neither  in  small  things  nor  in 
great ;  he  keeps  watch  over  himself  both  that  the  great 


MARCUS  AURELroS  163 

springs  of  action  may  be  right  in  him,  and  that  the 
minute  details  of  action  may  be  right  also.  How 
admirable  in  a  hard-tasked  ruler,  and  a  ruler  too,  with 
a  passion  for  thinking  and  reading,  is  such  a  memoran- 
dum as  the  following  :  — 

"Not  frequently  nor  without  necessity  to  say  to  any 
one,  or  to  write  in  a  letter,  that  I  have  no  leisure  ; 
nor  continually  to  excuse  the  neglect  of  duties  required 
by  our  relation  to  those  with  whom  we  live,  by  alleging 
urgent  occupation."  ^ 

And,  when  that  ruler  is  a  Roman  emperor,  what  an 
"  idea  "  is  this  to  be  written  down  and  meditated  by 
him:  — 

"  The  idea  of  a  polity  in  which  there  is '  the  same 
law  for  all,  a  polity  administered  with  regard  to  equal 
rights  and  equal  freedom  of  speech,  and  the  idea  of  a 
kingly  government  which  respects  most  of  all  the  free- 
dom of  the  governed."  ^ 

And,  for  all  men  who  "drive  at  practice,"  what 
practical  rules  may  not  one  accumulate  out  of  these 
Meditations :  — 

"  The  greatest  part  of  what  we  say  or  do  being 
unnecessary,  if  a  man  takes  this  away,  he  will  have 
more  leisure  and  less  uneasiness.  Accordingly,  on  every 
occasion  a  man  should  ask  himself :  '  Is  this  one  of  the 
unnecessary  things  ?  '  Now  a  man  should  take  away  not 
only  unnecessary  acts,  but  also  unnecessary  thoughts, 
for  thus  superfluous  acts  will  not  follow  after."  ^ 

And  again  :  — 

"  We  ought  to  check  in  the  series  of  our  thoughts 
everything  that  is  without  a  purpose  and  useless,  but 
most  of  all  the  over  curious  feeling  and  the  malignant ; 
and  a  man  should  use  himself  to  think  of  those  things 
only  about  which  if  one  should  suddenly  ask,  '  What 
hast  thou  now  in  thy  thoughts?'  with  perfect  open- 


164  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ness  thou  raightest  immediately  answer,  '  This  or 
That ' ;  so  that  from  thy  words  it  should  be  plain  that 
everything  in  thee  is  simple  and  benevolent,  and  such 
as  befits  a  social  animal,  and  one  that  cares  not  for 
thoughts  about  sensual  enjoyments,  or  any  rivalry  or 
envy  and  suspicion,  or  anything  else  for  which  thou 
wouldst  blush  if  thou  shouldst  say  thou  hadst  it  in  thy 
mind."  ^ 

So,  with  a  stringent  practicalness  worthy  of  Frank- 
lin, he  discourses  on  his  favorite  text,  Let  nothing  he 
done  without  a  -purpose.  But  it  is  when  he  enters  the 
region  where  Franklin  cannot  follow  him,  when  he 
utters  his  thoughts  on  the  ground-motives  of  human 
action,  that  he  is  most  interesting  ;  that  he  becomes 
the  unique,  the  incomparable  Marcus  Aurelius.  Chris- 
tianity uses  language  very  liable  to  be  misunderstood 
when  it  seems  to  tell  men  to  do  good,  not,  certainly, 
from  the  vulgar  motives  of  worldly  interest,  or  vanity, 
or  love  of  human  praise,  but  "  that  their  Father  which 
seeth  in  secret  may  reward  them  openly."  The  motives 
of  reward  and  punishment  have  come,  from  the  mis- 
conception of  language  of  this  kind,  to  be  strangely 
overpressed  by  many  Christian  moralists,  to  the  de- 
terioration and  disfigurement  of  Christianity.  Marcus 
Aurelius  says,  truly  and  nobly :  — 

"  One  man,  when  he  has  done  a  service  to  another, 
is  ready  to  set  it  down  to  his  account  as  a  favor  con- 
ferred. Another  is  not  ready  to  do  this,  but  still  in 
his  own  mind  he  thinks  of  the  man  as  his  debtor,  and 
he  knows  what  he  has  done.  A  third  in  a  manner  does 
not  even  know  what  he  has  done,  hut  he  is  like  a  vine 
which  has  produced  grapes,  and  seeks  for  nothing 
more  after  it  has  once  produced  its  ptroper  fruit.  As 
a  horse  when  he  has  run,  a  dog  when  he  has  caught 
the  game,  a  bee  when  it  has  made  its  honey,  so  a  man 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  165 

•when  he  has  done  a  good  act,  does  not  call  out  for 
others  to  come  and  see,  but  he  goes  on  to  another  act, 
as  a  vine  goes  on  to  produce  again  the  grapes  in  sea- 
son. Must  a  man,  then,  be  one  of  these,  who  in  a  man- 
ner acts  thus  without  observing  it?  Yes."  ^ 

And  again  :  — 

"What  more  dost  thou  want  when  thou  hast  done  a 
man  a  service  ?  Art  thou  not  content  that  thou  hast 
done  something  conformable  to  thy  nature,  and  dost 
thou  seek  to  be  paid  for  it,  just  as  if  the  eye  demanded 
a  recompense  for  seeing,  or  the  feet  for  walking  ?  "  ^ 

Christianity,  in  order  to  match  morality  of  this 
strain,  has  to  correct  its  apparent  offers  of  external 
reward,  and  to  say  :  The  kingdom  of  God  is  within 
you. 

I  have  said  that  it  is  by  its  accent  of  emotion  that 
the  morality  of  Marcus  Aurelius  acquires  a  special 
character,  and  reminds  one  of  Christian  morality.  The 
sentences  of  Seneca  ^  are  stimulating  to  the  intellect ; 
the  sentences  of  Epictetus  are  fortifying  to  the  char- 
acter ;  the  sentences  of  Marcus  Aurelius  find  their 
way  to  the  soul.  I  have  said  that  religious  emotion 
has  the  power  to  light  up  morality :  the  emotion  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  does  not  quite  light  up  his  morality, 
but  it  suffuses  it  ;  it  has  not  power  to  melt  the  clouds 
of  effort  and  austerity  quite  away,  but  it  shines  through 
them  and  glorifies  them ;  it  is  a  spirit,  not  so  much  of 
gladness  and  elation,  as  of  gentleness  and  sweetness  ; 
a  delicate  and  tender  sentiment,  which  is  less  than  joy 
and  more  than  resignation.  He  says  that  in  his  youth 
he  learned  from  Maximus,  one  of  his  teachers,  "  cheer- 
fulness in  all  circumstances  as  well  as  in  illness ;  and 
a  just  admixture  in  the  moral  character  of  sweet- 
ness and  dignity  "  :  and  it  is  this  very  admixture  of 
sweetness  with  his  dignity  which  makes  him  so  beau- 


166  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

tiful  a  moralist.  It  enables  him  to  carry  even  into 
his  observation  of  nature,  a  delicate  penetration,  a 
sympathetic  tenderness,  worthy  of  Wordsworth  ;  the 
spirit  of  such  a  remark  as  the  following  has  hardly  a 
parallel,  so  far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  in  the  whole 
range  of  Greek  and  Roman  literature :  — 

"  Figs,  when  they  are  quite  ripe,  gape  open  ;  and  in 
the  ripe  olives  the  very  circumstance  of  their  being- 
near  to  rottenness  adds  a  peculiar  beauty  to  the  fruit. 
And  the  ears  of  corn  bending  down,  and  the  lion's 
eyebrows,  and  the  foam  which  flows  from  the  mouth 
of  wild  boars,  and  many  other  things,  —  though 
they  are  far  from  being  beautifiU,  in  a  certain  sense, 
—  still,  because  they  come  in  the  course  of  nature, 
have  a  beauty  in  them,  and  they  please  the  mind  ;  so 
that  if  a  man  should  have  a  feeling  and  a  deeper 
insight  with  respect  to  the  things  which  are  produced 
in  the  universe,  there  is  hardly  anything  which  comes 
in  the  course  of  nature  which  will  not  seem  to  him  to 
be  in  a  manner  disposed  so  as  to  give  pleasure."  ^ 

But  it  is  when  his  strain  passes  to  directly  moral 
subjects  that  his  delicacy  and  sweetness  lend  to  it  the 
greatest  charm.  Let  those  who  can  feel  the  beauty  of 
spiritual  refinement  read  this,  the  reflection  of  an 
emperor  who  prized  mental  superiority  highly :  — 

"  Thou  sayest,  '  Men  cannot  admire  the  sharpness 
of  thy  wits.'  Be  it  so ;  but  there  are  many  other 
things  of  which  thou  canst  not  say,  '  I  am  not  formed 
for  them  by  nature.'  Show  those  qualities,  then,  which 
are  altogether  in  thy  power,  —  sincerity,  gravity,  en- 
durance of  labor,  aversion  to  pleasure,  contentment  with 
thy  portion  and  with  few  things,  benevolence,  frank- 
ness, no  love  of  superfluity,  freedom  from  trifling, 
magnanimity.  Dost  thou  not  see  how  many  qualities 
thou  art  at  once  able  to  exhibit,  as  to  which  there  is 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  167 

no  excuse  of  natural  incapacity  and  unfitness,  and  yet 
thou  still  remainest  voluntarily  below  the  mark?  Or 
art  thou  compelled,  through  being  defectively  fur- 
nished by  nature,  to  murmur,  and  to  be  mean,  and  to 
flatter,  and  to  find  fault  with  thy  poor  body,  and  to  try 
to  please  men,  and  to  make  great  display,  and  to  be  so 
restless  in  thy  mind?  No,  indeed;  but  thou  mightest 
have  been  delivered  from  these  things  long  ago.  Only, 
if  in  truth  thou  canst  be  charged  with  being  rather 
slow  and  dull  of  comprehension,  thou  must  exert  thy- 
self about  this  also,  not  neglecting  nor  yet  taking 
pleasure  in  thy  dulness."  ^ 

The  same  sweetness  enables  him  to  fix  his  mind, 
when  he  sees  the  isolation  and  moral  death  caused  by 
sin,  not  on  the  cheerless  thought  of  the  misery  of  this 
condition,  but  on  the  inspiriting  thought  that  man  is 
blest  with  the  power  to  escape  from  it :  — 

"  Suppose  that  thou  hast  detached  thyself  from  the 
natural  unity,  —  for  thou  wast  made  by  nature  a  part, 
but  thou  hast  cut*  thyself  off,  — yet  here  is  this  beau- 
tiful provision,  that  it  is  in  thy  power  again  to  unite 
thyself.  God  has  allowed  this  to  no  other  part, — 
after  it  has  been  separated  and  cut  asunder,  to  come 
together  again.  But  consider  the  goodness  with  which 
he  has  privileged  man  ;  for  he  has  j^ut  it  in  his  jjower, 
when  he  has  been  separated,  to  return  and  to  be  united 
and  to  resume  his  place."  ^ 

It  enables  him  to  control  even  the  passion  for  re- 
treat and  solitude,  so  strong  in  a  soul  like  his,  to  which 
the  world  could  offer  no  abiding  city :  — 

"  Men  seek  retreat  for  themselves,  houses  in  the 
country,  seashores,  and  mountains ;  and  thou,  too,  art 
wont  to  desire  such  things  very  much.  But  this  is  al- 
together a  mark  of  the  most  common  sort  of  men,  for 
it  is  in  thy  power  whenever  thou  shalt  choose  to  retire 


108  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

into  thyself.  For  nowhere  either  with  more  quiet  or 
more  freedom  from  trouble  does  a  man  retire  than  into 
his  own  soul,  particularly  when  he  has  within  him 
such  thoughts  that  by  looking  into  them  he  is  immedi- 
ately in  perfect  tranquillit}'.  Constantly,  then,  give  to 
thyself  this  retreat,  and  renew  thyself ;  and  let  thy 
principles  be  brief  and  fundamental,  which  as  soon  as 
thou  shalt  recur  to  them,  will  be  sufficient  to  cleanse 
the  soul  completely,  and  to  send  thee  back  free  from  all 
discontent  with  the  things  to  which  thou  returnest."  ^ 

Against  ihh  feeling  of  discontent  and  weariness,  so 
natural  to  the  great  for  whom  there  seems  nothing 
left  to  desire  or  to  strive  after,  but  so  enfeebling  to 
them,  so  deteriorating,  Marcus  Aurelius  never  ceased 
to  struggle.  With  resolute  thankfulness  he  kept  in 
remembrance  the  blessings  of  his  lot ;  the  true  blessings 
of  it,  not  the  false :  — 

"  I  have  to  thank  Heaven  that  I  was  subjected  to  a 
ruler  and  a  father  (Antoninus  Pius)  who  was  able  to 
take  away  all  pride  from  me,  and  to  bring  me  to  the 
knowledge  that  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  live  in  a 
palace  without  either  guards,  or  embroidered  dresses, 
or  any  show  of  this  kind ;  but  tliat  it  is  in  such  a  man's 
power  to  bring  himself  very  near  to  the  fashion  of  a 
private  person,  without  being  for  this  reason  either 
meaner  in  thought  or  more  remiss  in  action  with  re- 
spect to  the  things  which  must  be  done  for  public 
interest.  ...  I  have  to  be  thankful  that  my  children 
have  not  been  stupid  nor  deformed  in  body  ;  that  I  did 
not  make  more  proficiency  in  rhetoric,  poetrj'-,  and  the 
other  studies,  by  which  I  should  perhaps  have  been 
complete^  engrossed,  if  I  had  seen  that  I  was  making 
great  progress  in  them  ;  .  .  .  that  I  knew  ApoUonius, 
Rusticus,  Maximus;  .  .  .  that  I  received  clear  and 
frequent  impressions  about  living  according  to  nature, 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  169 

and  what  kind  of  a  life  that  is,  so  that,  so  far  as  de- 
pended on  Heaven,  and  its  gifts,  help,  and  inspiration, 
nothing  hindered  me  from  forthwith  living  according 
to  nature,  though  I  still  fall  short  of  it  through  my 
own  fault,  and  through  not  observing  the  admonitions 
of  Heaven,  and,  I  may  almost  say,  its  direct  instruc- 
tions ;  that  my  body  has  held  out  so  long  in  such  a  kind 
of  life  as  mine ;  that  though  it  was  my  mother's  lot  to 
die  young,  she  spent  the  last  years  of  her  life  with  me  ; 
that  whenever  I  wished  to  help  any  man  in  his  need, 
I  was  never  told  that  I  had  not  the  meafls  of  doing  it ; 
that,  when  I  had  an  inclination  to  philosophy,  I  did 
not  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  sophist."  ^ 

And,  as  he  dwelt  with  gratitude  on  these  helps  and 
blessings  vouchsafed  to  him,  his  mind  (so,  at  least,  it 
seems  to  me)  would  sometimes  revert  with  awe  to  the 
perils  and  temptations  of  the  lonely  height  where  he 
stood,  to  the  lives  of  Tiberius,  Caligula,  Nero,  Do- 
mitian,^  in  their  hideous  blackness  and  ruin  ;  and  then 
he  wrote  down  for  himself  such  a  warning  entry  as 
this,  significant  and  terrible  in  its  abruptness : — 

"A  black  character,  a  womanish  character,  a  stub- 
born character,  bestial,  childish,  animal,  stupid,  coun- 
terfeit, scurrilous,  fraudulent,  tyrannical !  "  ^ 

Or  this :  — 

"  About  what  am  I  now  employing  my  soul  ?  On 
every  occasion  I  must  ask  myself  this  question,  and 
inquire,  What  have  I  now  in  this  part  of  me  which  they 
call  the  ruling  principle,  and  whose  soul  have  I  now  ?  — 
that  of  a  child,  or  of  a  young  man,  or  of  a  weak  woman, 
or  of  a  tyrant,  or  of  one  of  the  lower  animals  in  the 
service  of  man,  or  of  a  wild  beast  ?  "  * 

The  character  he  wished  to  attain  he  knew  well, 
and  beautifully  he  has  marked  it,  and  marked,  too,  his 
sense  of  shortcoming :  —  -* 


170  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  When  thou  hast  assumed  these  names,  —  gooc!, 
modest,  true,  rational,  equal-minded,  magnanimous,  — 
take  care  that  thou  dost  not  change  these  names  ;  and, 
if  thou  shouldst  lose  them,  quickly  return  to  them. 
If  thou  maintainest  thyself  in  possession  of  these 
names  without  desiring  that  others  should  call  thee 
by  them,  thou  wilt  be  another  being,  and  wilt  enter 
on  another  life.  For  to  continue  to  be  such  as  thou 
hast  hitherto  been,  and  to  be  torn  in  pieces  and  de- 
filed in  such  a  life,  is  the  character  of  a  very  stupid 
man,  and  one  ^verfond  of  his  life,  and  like  those  half- 
devoured  fighters  with  wild  beasts,  who  though  cov- 
ered with  wounds  and  gore  still  entreat  to  be  kept  to 
the  following  day,  though  they  will  be  exposed  in  the 
same  state  to  the  same  claws  and  bites.  Therefore  fix 
thyself  in  the  possession  of  these  few  names :  and  if 
thou  art  able  to  abide  in  them,  abide  as  if  thou  wast 
removed  to  the  Happy  Islands."  ^ 

For  all  his  sweetness  and  serenity,  however,  man's 
point  of  life  "between  two  infinities  "  (of  that  expres- 
sion Marcus  Aurelius  is  the  real  owner)  was  to  him 
anything  but  a  Happy  Island,  and  the  performances 
on  it  he  saw  through  no  veils  of  illusion.  Nothing  is 
in  general  more  gloomy  and  monotonous  than  declama- 
tions on  the  hollowness  and  transitoriness  of  human 
life  and  grandeur:  but  here,  too,  the  great  charm  of 
Marcus  Aurelius,  his  emotion,  comes  in  to  relieve  the 
monotony  and  to  break  through  the  gloom  ;  and  even 
on  this  eternally  used  topic  he  is  imaginative,  fresh, 
and  striking :  — 

"  Consider,  for  example,  the  times  of  Vespasian. 
Thou  wilt  see  all  these  things,  people  marrying,  bring- 
ing up  children,  sick,  dying,  warring,  feasting,  traffick- 
ing, cultivating  the  ground,  flattering,  obstinately 
arrogant,  suspecting,  plotting,  wishing  for  somebody 


MARCUS  AURELroS  171 

to  die,  grumbling  about  the  present,  loving,  heaping 
up  treasure,  desiring  to  be  consuls  or  kings.  Well  then 
that  life  of  these  people  no  longer  exists  at  all.  Again, 
go  to  the  times  of  Trajan.  All  is  again  the  same. 
Their  life  too  is  gone.  But  chiefly  thou  shouldst  think 
of  those  whom  thou  hast  thyself  known  distracting 
themselves  about  idle  things,  neglecting  to  do  what 
was  in  accordance  with  their  proper  constitution,  and 
to  hold  firmly  to  this  and  to  be  content  with  it."  ^ 

Again  :  — 

"  The  things  which  are  much  valued  in  life  are 
empty,  and  rotten,  and  trifling ;  and  people  are  like 
little  dogs,  biting  one  another,  and  little  children 
quarrelling,  crying,  and  then  straightway  laughing. 
But  fidelity,  and  modesty,  and  justice,  and  truth,  are 
fled 

*  Up  to  Olympus  from  the  wide-spread  earth.' 

What  then  is  there  which  still  detains  thee  here  ?  "  2 

And  once  more  :  — 

"  Look  down  from  above  on  the  countless  herds  of 
men,  and  their  countless  solemnities,  and  the  infinitely 
varied  voyagings  in  storms  and  calms,  and  the  differ- 
ences among  those  who  are  born,  who  live  together, 
and  die.  And  consider  too  the  life  lived  by  others  in 
olden  time,  and  the  life  now  lived  among  barbarous 
nations,  and  how  many  know  not  even  thy  name,  and 
how  many  will  soon  forget  it,  and  how  they  who  per- 
haps now  are  praising  thee  will  very  soon  blame  thee, 
and  that  neither  a  posthumous  name  is  of  any  value, 
nor  reputation,  nor  anything  else."  ^ 

He  recognized,  indeed,  that  (to  use  his  own  words) 
"  the  prime  principle  in  man's  constitution  is  the 
social  "  ;  4  and  he  labored  sincerely  to  make  not  only 
his  acts  towards  his  fellow-men,  but  his  thoughts  also, 
suitable  to  this  conviction  ;  — 


172  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  When  thou  wishest  to  delight  thyself,  think  of 
the  virtues  of  those  who  live  with  thee  ;  for  instance, 
the  activity  of  one,  and  the  modesty  of  another,  and  the 
liberality  of  a  third,  and  some  other  good  quality  of 
a  fourth."! 

Still,  it  is  hard  for  a  pure  and  thoughtful  man  to 
live  in  a  state  of  rapture  at  the  spectacle  afforded  to 
him  by  his  fellow-creatures  ;  above  all  it  is  hard,  when 
such  a  man  is  placed  as  Marcus  Aurelius  was  placed, 
and  has  had  the  meanness  and  perversity  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures thrust,  in  no  common  measure,  upon  his 
notice,  —  has  had,  time  after  time,  to  experience  how 
"  within  ten  days  thou  wilt  seem  a  god  to  those  to  whom 
thou  art  now  a  beast  and  an  ape."  His  true  strain  of 
thought  as  to  his  relations  with  his  fellow-men  is  rather 
the  following.  He  has  been  enumerating  the  higher 
consolations  which  may  support  a  man  at  the  approach 
of  death,  and  he  goes  on  :  — 

"  But  if  thou  requirest  also  a  vulgar  kind  of  com- 
fort which  shall  reach  thy  heart,  thou  wilt  be  made 
best  reconciled  to  death  by  observing  the  objects  from 
which  thou  art  going  to  be  removed,  and  the  morals 
of  those  with  whom  thy  soid  will  no  longer  be  mingled. 
For  it  is  no  way  right  to  be  offended  with  men,  but  it 
is  thy  duty  to  care  for  them  and  to  bear  with  them 
gently  ;  and  yet  to  remember  that  thy  departure  will 
not  be  from  men  who  have  the  same  principles  as  thy- 
self. For  this  is  the  only  thing,  if  there  be  any, 
which  could  di-aw  us  the  contrary  way  and  attach  us 
to  life,  to  be  permitted  to  live  with  those  who  have 
the  same  principles  as  ourselves.  But  now  thou  seest 
how  great  is  the  distress  caused  by  the  difference  of 
those  who  live  together,  so  that  thou  mayest  say: 
'Come  quick,  O  death,  lest  perchance  I  too  should 
forget  myself.' "  ^ 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  173 

0  faithless  and  perverse  generation  /  how  long 
shall  I  be  with  you  f  how  long  shall  I  suffer  you  ?  ^ 
Sometimes  this  strain  rises  even  to  passion :  — 

"  Short  is  the  little  which  remains  to  thee  of  life. 
Live  as  on  a  mountain.  Let  men  see,  let  them  know, 
a  real  man,  who  lives  as  he  was  meant  to  live.  If  they 
cannot  endure  him,  let  them  kill  him.  For  that  is 
better  than  to  live  as  men  do."  ^ 

It  is  remarkable  how  little  of  a  merely  local  and  tem- 
porary character,  how  little  of  those  scorice  which  a 
reader  has  to  clear  away  before  he  gets  to  the  precious 
ore,  how  little  that  even  admits  of  doubt  or  question, 
the  morality  of  Marcus  Aurelius  exhibits.  Perhaps  as 
to  one  point  we  must  make  an  exception.  Marcus 
Aurelius  is  fond  of  urging  as  a  motive  for  man's  cheer- 
ful acqiiiescence  in  whatever  befalls  him,  that  "  what- 
ever happens  to  every  man  is  for  the  interest  of  the 
universal  "  ;  ^  that  the  whole  contains  nothing  which 
is  not  for  its  advantage  ;  that  everything  which  hap- 
pens to  a  man  is  to  be  accepted,  "  even  if  it  seems 
disagreeable,  because  it  leads  to  the  health  of  the  uni- 
verse.^^  ^  And  the  whole  course  of  the  universe,  he  adds, 
has  a  providential  reference  to  man's  welfare :  "  all 
other  things  have  been  made  for  the  sake  of  rational 
beings^  ^  Religion  has  in  all  ages  freely  used  this  lan- 
guage, and  it  is  not  religion  which  will  object  to 
Marcus  Aurelius's  use  of  it ;  but  science  can  hardly  ac- 
cept as  severely  accurate  this  employment  of  the  terms 
interest  and  advantage.  To  a  sound  nature  and  a  clear 
reason  the  proposition  that  things  happen  "  for  the 
interest  of  the  universal,"  as  men  conceive  of  inter,est, 
may  seem  to  have  no  meaning  at  all,  and  the  proposi- 
tion that  "  all  things  have  been  made  for  the  sake  of 
rational  beings  "  may  seem  to  be  false.  Yet  even  to 
this  language,  not  irresistibly  cogent  when  it  is  thus 


174  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

absolutely  used,  Marcus  Aurelius  gives  a  turn  which 
makes  it  true  and  useful,  when  he  saj^s  :  "  The  ruling 
part  of  man  can  make  a  material  for  itself  out  of  that 
which  opposes  it,  as  fire  lays  hold  of  what  falls  into  it, 
and  rises  higher  by  means  of  this  very  material " ;  ^  — 
when  he  says  :  "  What  else  are  all  things  except  exer- 
cises for  the  reason  ?  Persevere  then  until  thou  shalt 
have  made  all  things  thine  own,  as  the  stomach  which 
is  strengthened  makes  all  things  its  own,  as  the  blaz- 
ing fire  makes  flame  and  brightness  out  of  everj'^thing 
that  is  thrown  into  it  "  ;  ^  —  when  he  says  :  "  Thou  wilt 
not  cease  to  be  miserable  till  thy  mind  is  in  such  a 
condition,  that,  what  luxury  is  to  those  who  enjoy 
pleasure,  such  shall  be  to  thee,  in  every  matter  which 
presents  itself,  the  doing  of  the  things  which  are  con- 
formable to  man's  constitution  ;  for  a  man  ought  to 
consider  as  an  enjoyment  everything  which  it  is  in  his 
power  to  do  according  to  his  own  nature,  —  and  it  is 
in  his  power  everywhere."  ^  In  this  sense  it  is,  indeed, 
most  true  that  "  all  things  have  been  made  for  the 
sake  of  rational  beings  " ;  that  "  all  things  work  to- 
gether for  good." 

In  general,  however,  the  action  Marcus  Aurelius 
prescribes  is  action  which  every  sound  nature  must 
recognize  as  right,  and  the  motives  he  assigns  are 
motives  which  every  clear  reason  must  recognize  as  valid. 
And  so  he  remains  the  especial  friend  and  comforter 
of  all  clear-headed  and  scrupulous,  yet  pure-hearted 
and  upward  striving  men,  in  those  ages  most  especially 
that  walk  by  sight,  not  by  faith,  but  yet  have  no  open 
vision.  He  cannot  give  such  souls,  perhaps,  all  they 
yearn  for,  but  he  gives  them  much  ;  and  what  he  gives 
them,  they  can  receive. 

Yet  no,  it  is  not  for  what  he  thus  gives  them  that  such 
souls  love  him  most !  it  is  rather  because  of  the  emo- 


MARCUS  AURELIUS  175 

tion  which  lends  to  his  voice  so  touching  an  accent, 
it  is  because  he  too  yearns  as  they  do  for  something 
unattained  by  him.  What  an  affinity  for  Christianity 
had  this  persecutor  of  the  Christians !  The  effusion  of 
Christianity,  its  relieving  tears,  its  happy  self-sacrifice, 
were  the  very  element,  one  feels,  for  which  his  soul 
longed  ;  they  were  near  him,  they  brushed  him,  he 
touched  them,  he  passed  them  by.  One  feels,  too, 
that  the  Marcus  Aurelius  one  reads  must  still  have 
remained,  even  had  Christianity  been  fully  known  to 
him,  in  a  great  measure  himself  ;  he  would  have  been 
no  Justin  ;  —  but  how  would  Christianity  have  affected 
him  ?  in  what  measure  would  it  have  changed  him  ? 
Granted  that  he  might  have  found,  like  the  Alogi  ^ 
of  modern  times,  in  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Gos- 
pels, the  Gospel  which  has  leavened  Christendom  most 
powerfully,  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  too  much  Greek 
metaphysics,  too  much  gnosis  ;  ^  granted  that  this  Gos- 
pel might  have  looked  too  like  what  he  knew  already  to 
be  a  total  surprise  to  him  :  what,  then,  would  he  have 
said  to  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  to  the  twenty-sixth 
chapter  of  St.  Matthew  ?  What  would  have  become 
of  his  notions  of  the  exitlabllis  superstition  of  the 
"  obstinacy  of  the  Christians  "  ?  Tain  question !  yet 
the  greatest  charm  of  Marcus  Aurelius  is  that  he 
makes  us  ask  it.  We  see  him  wise,  just,  self -governed, 
tender,  thankful,  blameless ;  yet,  with  all  this,  agi- 
tated, stretching  out  his  arms  for  something  beyond, 
—  tendentemque  maims  ripce  ulterioris  amove? 


THE   CONTKIBUTION   OF  THE   CELTS  TO 
ENGLISH   LITERATURE  1 

If  I  were  asked  where  English  poetry  got  these 
three  things,  its  turn  for  style,  its  turn  for  melancholy, 
and  its  turn  for  natural  magic,  for  catching  and  ren- 
dering the  charm  of  nature  in  a  wonderfully  near  and 
vivid  way,  —  I  should  answer,  with  some  doubt,  that 
it  got  much  of  its  turn  for  style  from  a  Celtic  source ; 
with  less  doubt,  that  it  got  much  of  its  melancholy 
from  a  Celtic  source ;  with  no  doubt  at  all,  that 
from  a  Celtic  source  it  got  nearly  all  its  natural 
magic. 

Any  German  with  penetration  and  tact  in  matters 
of  literary  criticism  will  own  that  the  principal  defi- 
ciency of  German  poetry  is  in  style ;  that  for  style, 
in  the  highest  sense,  it  shows  but  little  feeling.  Take 
the  eminent  masters  of  style,  the  poets  who  best  give 
the  idea  of  what  the  peculiar  power  which  lies  in  style 
is  —  Pindar,  Virgil,  Dante,  Milton.  An  example  of 
the  peculiar  effect  which  these  poets  produce,  you  can 
hardly  give  from  German  poetry.  Examples  enough 
you  can  give  from  German  poetry  of  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  genius,  thought,  and  feeling  expressing  them- 
selves in  clear  language,  simple  language,  passionate 
language,  eloquent  language,  with  harmony  and  mel- 
ody :  but  not  of  the  peculiar  effect  exercised  by  emi- 
nent power  of  style.  Every  reader  of  Dante  can  at  once 
call  to  mind  what  the  peculiar  effect  I  mean  is ;  I 
spoke  of  it  in  my  lectures  on  translating  Homer,  and 
there  I  took  an  example  of  it  from  Dante,  who  per- 
haps manifests  it  more  eminently  than  any  other  poet. 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS     177 

But  from  Milton,  too,  one  may  take  examples  of  it 
abundantly ;  compare  this  from  Milton  :  — 

"...  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two  equal  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equall'd  with  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Mseonides  —  "  ^ 

with  this  from  Goethe  :  — 

"  Es  bildet  ein  Talent  sich  in  der  Stille, 
Sich  ein  Character  in  dem  Strom  der  Welt."  ^ 

Nothing  can  be  better  in  its  way  than  the  style  in 
which  Goethe  there  presents  his  thought,  but  it  is  the 
style  of  prose  as  much  as  of  poetry ;  it  is  lucid,  har- 
monious, earnest,  eloquent,  but  it  has  not  received  that 
peculiar  kneading,  heightening,  and  recasting  which  is 
observable  in  the  style  of  the  passage' from  Milton  — 
a  style  which  seems  to  have  for  its  cause  a  certain 
pressure  of  emotion,  and  an  ever-surging,  yet  bridled, 
excitement  in  the  poet,  giving  a  special  intensity  to 
his  way  of  delivering  himself.  In  poetical  races  and 
epochs  this  turn  for  style  is  peculiarly  observable ; 
and  perhaps  it  is  only  on  condition  of  having  this 
somewhat  heightened  and  difficult  manner,  so  differ- 
ent from  the  plain  manner  of  prose,  that  poetry  gets 
the  privilege  of  being  loosed,  at  its  best  moments,  into 
that  perfectly  simple,  limpid  style,  which  is  the  su- 
preme style  of  all,  but  the  simplicity  of  which  is  still 
not  the  simplicity  of  prose.  The  simplicity  of  Menan- 
der's  ^  style  is  the  simplicity  of  prose,  and  is  the  same 
kind  of  simplicity  as  that  which  Goethe's  style,  in  the 
passage  I  have  quoted,  exhibits ;  but  Menander  does 
not  belong  to  a  great  poetical  moment,  he  comes  too 
late  for  it ;  it  is  the  simple  passages  in  poets  like 
Pindar  or  Dante  which  are  perfect,  being  masterpieces 
of  poetical  simplicity.  One  may  say  the  same  of  the 
simple  passages  in  Shakespeare ;    they  are  perfect, 


178  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

their  simplicity  being  a  poetical  simplicity.  They  are 
the  golden,  easeful,  crowning  moments  of  a  manner 
which  is  always  pitched  in  another  key  from  that  of 
prose,  a  manner  changed  and  heightened ;  the  Eliza- 
bethan style,  regnant  in  most  of  our  dramatic  poetry 
to  this  day,  is  mainly  the  continuation  of  this  manner 
of  Shakespeare's.  It  was  a  manner  much  more  turbid 
and  strewn  with  blemishes  than  the  manner  of  Pindar, 
Dante,  or  Milton  ;  often  it  was  detestable ;  but  it  owed 
its  existence  to  Shakespeare's  instinctive  impulse  to- 
wards style  in  poetry,  to  his  native  sense  of  the  neces- 
sity for  it ;  and  without  the  basis  of  style  everywhere, 
faulty  though  it  may  in  some  places  be,  we  should  not 
have  had  the  beauty  of  expression,  unsurpassable  for 
effectiveness  and  charm,  which  is  reached  in  Shakes- 
peare's best  passages.  The  turn  for  style  is  perceptible 
all  through  English  poetry,  proving,  to  my  mind,  the 
genuine  poetical  gift  of  the  race ;  this  turn  imparts 
to  our  poetry  a  stamp  of  high  distinction,  and  some- 
times it  doubles  the  force  of  a  poet  not  by  nature  of 
the  very  highest  order,  such  as  Gray,  and  raises  him 
to  a  rank  beyond  what  his  natural  richness  and  power 
seem  to  promise.  Goethe,  with  his  fine  critical  per- 
ception, saw  clearly  enough  both  the  power  of  style  in 
itself,  and  the  lack  of  style  in  the  literature  of  his  own 
country ;  and  perhaps  if  we  regard  him  solely  as  a 
German,  not  as  a  European,  his  great  work  was  that 
he  labored  all  his  life  to  impart  style  into  German 
literature,  and  firmly  to  establish  it  there.  Hence  the 
immense  importance  to  him  of  the  world  of  classical 
art,  and  of  the  productions  of  Greek  or  Latin  genius, 
where  style  so  eminently  manifests  its  power.  Had  he 
found  in  the  German  genius  and  literature  an  element 
of  style  existing  by  nature  and  ready  to  his  hand,  half 
his  work,  one  may  say,  would  have  been  saved  him, 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS      170 

and  he  might  have  done  much  more  in  poetry.  But  as 
it  was,  he  had  to  try  and  create,  out  of  his  own  powers, 
a  style  for  German  poetry,  as  well  as  to  provide  con- 
tents for  this  style  to  carry ;  and  thus  his  labor  as  a 
poet  was  doubled. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  power  of  style,  in  the 
sense  in  which  I  am  here  speaking  of  style,  is  some- 
thing quite  different  from  the  power  of  idiomatic, 
simple,  nervous,  racy  expression,  such  as  the  expres- 
sion of  healthy,  robust  natures  so  often  is,  such  as 
Luther's  was  in  a  striking  degree.  Style,  in  my  sense 
of  the  word,  is  a  peculiar  recasting  and  heightening, 
under  a  certain  condition  of  spiritual  excitement,  of 
what  a  man  has  to  say,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  add 
dignity  and  distinction  to  it ;  and  dignity  and  distinc- 
tion are  not  terms  which  suit  many  acts  or  words  of 
Luther.  Deeply  touched  with  the  Gemeinheit^  which 
is  the  bane  of  his  nation,  as  he  is  at  the  same  time 
a  grand  example  of  the  honesty  which  is  his  nation's 
excellence,  he  can  seldom  even  show  himself  brave, 
resolute,  and  truthful,  without  showing  a  strong  dash 
of  coarseness  and  commonness  all  the  while  ;  the  right 
definition  of  Luther,  as  of  our  own  Bunyan,  is  that  he 
is  a  Philistine  of  genius.  So  Luther's  sincere  idio- 
matic German,  —  such  language  as  this  :  "  Hilf,  lieber 
Gott,  wie  manchen  Jammer  habe  icli  gesehen,  dass 
der  gemeine  Mann  doch  so  gar  nichts  weiss  von  der 
christlichen  Lehre!  " —  no  more  proves  a  power  of  style 
in  German  literature,  than  Cobbett's^  sinewy  idio- 
matic English  proves  it  in  English  literature.  Power 
of  style,  properly  so-called,  as  manifested  in  masters 
of  style  like  Dante  or  Milton  in  poetry,  Cicero,  Bos- 
suet  ^  or  Bolingbroke  ^  in  prose,  is  something  quite 
different,  and  has,  as  I  have  said,  for  its  characteristic 
effect,  this :  to  add  dignity  and  distinction. 


180  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

This  something  is  style.,  and  the  Celts  certainly 
have  it  in  a  wonderful  measure.  Style  is  the  most 
striking  quality  of  their  poetry.  Celtic  poetry  seems 
to  make  up  to  itself  for  being  unable  to  master  the 
world  and  give  an  adequate  interpretation  of  it,  by 
throwing  all  its  force  into  style,  by  bending  language 
at  any  rate  to  its  will,  and  expressing  the  ideas  it 
has  with  unsurpassable  intensity,  elevation,  and  effect. 
It  has  all  through  it  a  sort  of  intoxication  of  st}de  — 
a  Pindarisyyi,  to  use  a  word  formed  from  the  name  of 
the  poet,  on  whom,  above  all  other  poets,  the  power 
of  style  seems  to  have  exercised  an  inspiring  and  in- 
toxicating effect;  and  not  in  its  great  poets  only,  in 
Taliesin,  or  Llywarch  Hen,  or  Ossian,i  does  the  Celtic 
genius  show  this  Pindarism,  but  in  aU  its  produc- 
tions :  — 

"  The  grave  of  March  is  this,  and  this  the  grave  of  Gwythyr  ; 
Here  is  the  grave  of  Gwgawn  Gleddyfreidd  ; 
But  unknown  is  the  grave  of  Arthur."  ^ 

That  comes  from  the  Welsh  Memorials  of  the  Graves 
of  the  Warriors^  and  if  we  compare  it  with  the  fa- 
miliar memorial  inscriptions  of  an  English  churchyard 
(for  we  English  have  so  much  Germanism  in  us  that 
our  productions  offer  abundant  examples  of  German 
want  of  style  as  well  as  of  its  opposite)  :  — 

"  Afflictions  sore  long  time  I  bore, 
Physicians  were  in  vain, 
Till  God  did  please  Death  should  me  seize 
And  ease  me  of  my  pain  —  " 

if,  I  say,  we  compare  the  Welsh  memorial  lines  with 
the  English,  which  in  their  Gemeinheit  of  style  are 
truly  Germanic,  we  shall  get  a  clear  sense  of  what  that 
Celtic  talent  for  style  I  have  been  speaking  of  is. 

Its  chord  of  penetrating  passion  and  melancholy, 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS     181 

again,  its  Titanism  as  we  see  it  in  Byron,  —  what 
other  European  poetry  possesses  that  like  the  English, 
and  where  do  we  get  it  from  ?  The  Celts,  with  their 
vehement  reaction  against  the  despotism  of  fact,  with 
their  sensuous  nature,  their  manifold  striving,  their 
adverse  destiny,  their  immense  calamities,  the  Celts 
are  the  prime  authors  of  this  vein  of  piercing  regret 
and  passion,  —  of  this  Titanism  in  poetry.  A  famous 
book,  Macpherson's  Ossian,^  carried  in  the  last  cen- 
tury this  vein  like  a  flood  of  lava  through  Europe. 
I  am  not  going  to  criticize  Macpherson's  Ossian 
here.  Make  the  part  of  what  is  forged,  modern,  taw- 
dry, spurious,  in  the  book,  as  large  as  you  please; 
strip  Scotland,  if  you  like,  of  every  feather  of  bor- 
rowed plumes  which  on  the  strength  of  Macpherson's 
Ossian  she  may  have  stolen  from  that  vetus  et  major 
/Scoria, the  true  home  of  the  Ossianic  poetry,  Ireland; 
I  make  no  objection.  But  there  will  still  be  left  in  the 
book  a  residue  with  the  very  soul  of  the  Celtic  genius 
in  it,  and  which  has  the  proud  distinction  of  having 
brought  this  soul  of  the  Celtic  genius  into  contact 
with  the  genius  of  the  nations  of  modern  Europe,  and 
enriched  all  our  poetry  by  it.  Woody  Morven,  and 
echoing  Sora,  and  Selma  with  its  silent  halls !  —  we 
all  owe  them  a  debt  of  gratitude,  and  when  we  are 
unjust  enough  to  forget  it,  may  the  Muse  forget  us  ! 
Choose  any  one  of  the  better  passages  in  Macpher- 
son's Ossian  and  you  can  see  even  at  this  time  of  day 
what  an  apparition  of  newness  and  power  such  a 
strain  must  have  been  to  the  eighteenth  century  :  — 

"  I  have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were 
desolate.  The  fox  looked  out  from  the  windows,  the 
rank  grass  of  the  wall  waved  round  her  head.  Raise 
the  song  of  mourning,  O  bards,  over  the  land  of 
strangers.  They  have  but  fallen  before  us,  for  one  day 


182  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

we  must  fall.  Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of 
the  winged  days  ?  Thou  lookest  from  thy  towers  to- 
day; yet  a  few  years,  and  the  blast  of  the  desert 
comes ;  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court,  and  whistles 
round  thy  half- worn  shield.  Let  the  blast  of  the  desert 
come  I  we  shall  be  renowned  in  our  day." 

All  Europe  felt  the  power  of  that  melancholy ;  but 
what  I  wish  to  point  out  is,  that  no  nation  of  Europe 
so  caught  in  its  poetry  the  passionate  penetrating 
accent  of  the  Celtic  genius,  its  strain  of  Titanisra,  as 
the  English.  Goethe,  like  Napoleon,  felt  the  spell  of 
Ossian  very  powerfully,  and  he  quotes  a  long  passage 
from  him  in  his  Werther.^  But  what  is  there  Celtic, 
turbulent,  and  Titanic  about  the  German  Werther, 
that  amiable,  cultivated  and  melancholy  young  man, 
having  for  his  sorrow  and  suicide  the  perfectly  definite 
motive  that  Lotte  cannot  be  his?  Faust,  again,  has 
nothing  unaccountable,  defiant,  and  Titanic  in  him ; 
his  knowledge  does  not  bring  him  the  satisfaction  he 
expected  from  it,  and  meanwhile  he  finds  himself  poor 
and  growing  old,  and  balked  of  the  palpable  enjoy- 
ment of  life  ;  and  here  is  the  motive  for  Faust's  dis- 
content. In  the  most  energetic  and  impetuous  of 
Goethe's  creations,  —  his  Prometheus^  —  it  is  not 
Celtic  self-will  and  passion,  it  is  rather  the  Germanic 
sense  of  justice  and  reason,  which  revolts  against  the 
despotism  of  Zeus.  The  German  Sehnsiicht  itself  is  a 
wistful,  soft,  tearful  longing,  rather  than  a  struggling, 
fierce,  passionate  one.  But  the  Celtic  melancholy  is 
struggling,  fierce,  passionate ;  to  catch  its  note,  listen 
to  Lly warch  Hen  in  old  age,  addressing  his  crutch  :  — 

"  O  my  crutch  I  is  it  not  autumn,  when  the  fern  is 
red,  the  water-flag  yellow?  Have  I  not  hated  that 
wliich  I  love  ? 

O  my  crutch !  is  it  not  winter-time  now,  when  men 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS      183 

talk  together  after  that  they  have  drunken  ?  Is  not  the 
side  of  my  bed  left  desolate? 

O  my  crutch !  is  it  not  spring,  when  the  cuckoo 
passes  through  the  air,  when  the  foam  sparkles  on  the 
sea  ?  The  young  maidens  no  longer  love  me. 

O  my  crutch !  is  it  not  the  first  day  of  May  ?  The 
furrows,  are  they  not  shining  ;  the  young  corn,  is  it  not 
springing  ?  Ah !  the  sight  of  thy  handle  makes  me 
wroth. 

0  my  crutch !  stand  straight,  thou  wilt  support  me 
the  better ;  it  is  very  long  since  I  was  Llywarch. 

Behold  old  age,  which  makes  sport  of  me,  from  the 
hair  of  my  head  to  my  teeth,  to  my  eyes,  which  women 
loved. 

The  four  things  I  have  all  my  life  most  hated  fall 
upon  me  together,  —  coughing  and  old  age,  sickness 
and  sorrow. 

1  am  old,  I  am  alone,  shapeliness  and  warmth  are 
gone  from  me  ;  the  couch  of  honor  shall  be  no  more 
mine ;  I  am  miserable,  I  am  bent  on  my  crutch. 

How  evil  was  the  lot  allotted  to  Llywarch,  the  night 
when  he  was  brought  forth !  sorrows  without  end,  and 
no  deliverance  from  his  burden."  i 

There  is  the  Titanism  of  the  Celt,  his  passionate,  tur- 
bulent, indomitable  reaction  against  the  despotism  of 
fact ;  and  of  whom  does  it  remind  us  so  much  as  of 
Byron  ? 

"The  fire  which  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze; 
A  funeral  pile  !  "  ^ 
Or,  again :  — 

"  Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 
And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Tis  something:  better  not  to  be."  ^ 


184  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

One  has  only  to  let  one's  memory  begin  to  fetch 
passages  from  Byron  striking  the  same  note  as  that 
passage  from  Llywarch  Hen,  and  she  will  not  soon 
stop.  And  all  Byron's  heroes,  not  so  much  in  collision 
with  outward  things,  as  breaking  on  some  rock  of  re- 
volt and  misery  in  the  depths  of  their  own  nature ; 
Manfred,  self-consumed,  fighting  blindly  and  passion- 
ately with  I  know  not  what,  having  nothing  of  the 
consistent  development  and  intelligible  motive  of  Faust, 

—  Manfred,  Lara,  Cain,i  what  are  they  but  Titanic? 
Where  in  European  poetry  are  we  to  find  this  Celtic 
passion  of  revolt  so  warm-breathing,  puissant,  and  sin- 
cere :  except  perhaps  in  the  creation  of  a  yet  greater 
poet  than  Bp'on,  but  an  English  poet,  too,  like  Byron, 

—  in  the  Satan  of  Milton  ? 

"...  What  though  the  field  be  lost? 
All  is  not  lost;  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome."  ^ 

There,  surely,  speaks  a  genius  to  whose  composition 
the  Celtic  fibre  was  not  wholly  a  stranger  I 

The  Celt's  quick  feeling  for  what  is  noble  and  dis- 
tinguished gave  his  poetry  style  ;  his  indomitable  per- 
sonality gave  it  pride  and  passion ;  his  sensibility 
and  nervous  exaltation  gave  it  a  better  gift  still,  the 
gift  of  rendering  with  wonderful  felicity  the  magical 
charm  of  nature.  The  forest  solitude,  the  bubbling 
spring,  the  wild  flowers,  are  everywhere  in  romance. 
They  have  a  mysterious  life  and  grace  there ;  they  are 
Nature's  own  children,  and  utter  her  secret  in  a  way 
which  makes  them  something  quite  different  from  the 
woods,  waters,  and  plants  of  Greek  and  Latin  poetry. 
Now  of  this  delicate  magic,  Celtic  romance  is  so  pre- 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS     185 

eminent  a  mistress,  that  it  seems  impossible  to  believe 
the  power  did  not  come  into  romance  from  the  Celts.* 
Magic  is  just  the  word  for  it,  —  the  magic  of  nature  ; 
not  merely  the  beauty  of  nature,  —  that  the  Greeks 
and  Latins  had ;  not  merely  an  honest  smack  of  the 
soil,  a  faithful  realism,  —  that  the  Germans  had ;  but 
the  intimate  life  of  Nature,  her  weird  power  and  her 
fairy  charm.  As  the  Saxon  names  of  places,  with  the 
pleasant  wholesome  smack  of  the  soil  in  them,  — 
Weathersfield,  Thaxted,  Shalford,  —  are  to  the  Celtic 
names  of  places,  with  their  penetrating,  lofty  beauty, 
—  Velindra,  Tyntagel,  Caernarvon,  —  so  is  the  homely 
realism  of  German  and  Norse  nature  to  the  fairy-like 
loveliness  of  Celtic  nature.  Gwydion  wants  a  wife  for 
his  pupil :  "  Well,"  says  Math,  "  we  will  Seek,  I  and 
thou,  by  charms  and  illusions,  to  form  a  wife  for  him 
out  of  flowers.  So  they  took  the  blossoms  of  the  oak, 
and  the  blossoms  of  the  broom,  and  the  blossoms  of 
the  meadow-sweet,  and  produced  from  them  a  maiden, 
the  fairest  and  most  graceful  that  man  ever  saw.  And 
they  baptized  her,  and  gave  her  the  name  of  Flower- 
Aspect."  2  Celtic  romance  is  full  of  exquisite  touches 
like  that,  showing  the  delicacy  of  the  Celt's  feeling  in 
these  matters,  and  how  deeply  Nature  lets  him  come 
into  her  secrets.  The  quick  dropping  of  blood  is  called 
"  faster  than  the  fall  of  the  dewdrop  from  the  blade  of 
reed-grass  upon  the  earth,  when  the  dew  of  June  is  at 
the  heaviest."  And  thus  is  Olwen  described :  "  More 
yellow  was  her  hair  than  the  flower  of  the  broom,  and 
her  skin  was  whiter  than  the  foam  of  the  wave,  and 
fairer  were  her  hands  and  her  fingers  than  the  blossoms 
of  the  wood-anemony  amidst  the  spray  of  the  meadow 
fountains."  ^  For  loveliness  it  would  be  hard  to  beat 
that ;  and  for  magical  clearness  and  nearness  take  the 
following :  — 


186  MATTHEW  AENOLD 

"  And  in  the  evening  Peredur  entered  a  valley,  and 
at  the  head  of  the  valley  he  came  to  a  hermit's  cell, 
and  the  hermit  welcomed  him  gladly,  and  there  he 
spent  the  night.  And  in  the  morning  he  arose,  and 
when  he  went  forth,  behold,  a  shower  of  snow  had 
fallen  the  night  before,  and  a  hawk  had  killed  a  wild- 
fowl in  front  of  the  cell.  And  the  noise  of  the  horse 
scared  the  hawk  away,  and  a  raven  alighted  upon 
the  bird.  And  Peredur  stood  and  compared  the  black- 
ness of  the  raven,  and  the  whiteness  of  the  snow,  and 
the  redness  of  the  blood,  to  the  hair  of  the  lady  whom 
best  he  loved,  which  was  blacker  than  the  raven,  and 
to  her  skin,  which  was  whiter  than  the  snow,  and  to 
her  two  cheeks  which  were  redder  than  the  blood  upon 
the  snow  appeared  to  be."  ^ 

And  this,  which  is  perhaps  less  striking,  is  not  less 
beautiful :  — 

"  And  early  in  the  day  Geraint  and  Enid  left  the 
wood,  and  they  came  to  an  open  country,  with  mead- 
ows on  one  hand  and  mowers  mowing  the  meadows. 
And  there  was  a  river  before  them,  and  the  horses 
bent  down  and  drank  the  water.  And  they  went  up 
out  of  the  river  by  a  steep  bank,  and  there  they  met 
a  slender  stripling  with  a  satchel  about  his  neck ;  and 
he  had  a  small  blue  pitcher  in  his  hand,  and  a  bowl 
on  the  mouth  of  the  pitcher."  ^ 

And  here  the  landscape,  up  to  this  point  so  Greek 
in  its  clear  beauty,  is  suddenly  magicalized  by  the 
romance  touch,  — 

"  And  they  saw  a  tall  tree  by  the  side  of  the  river, 
one-half  of  which  was  in  flames  from  the  root  to  the 
top,  and  the  other  half  was  green  and  in  full  leaf." 

Magic  is  the  word  to  insist  upon,  —  a  magically 
vivid  and  near  interpretation  of  nature  ;  since  it  is  this 
which  constitutes  the  special  charm  and  power  of  the 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS     187 

effect  I  am  calling  attention  to,  and  it  is  for  this  that 
the  Celt's  sensibility  gives  him  a  peculiar  aptitude. 
But  the  matter  needs  rather  fine  handling,  and  it  is 
easy  to  make  mistakes  here  in  our  criticism.  In  the 
first  place,  Europe  tends  constantly  to  become  more 
and  more  one  community,  and  we  tend  to  become  Eu- 
ropeans instead  of  merely  Englishmen,  Frenchmen, 
Germans,  Italians ;  so  whatever  aptitude  or  felicity 
one  people  imparts  into  spiritual  work,  gets  imitated 
by  the  others,  and  thus  tends  to  become  the  common 
property  of  all.  Therefore  anything  so  beautiful  and 
attractive  as  the  natural  magic  I  am  speaking  of,  is 
sure,  nowadays,  if  it  appears  in  the  productions  of  the 
Celts,  or  of  the  English,  or  of  the  French,  to  appear 
in  the  productions  of  the  Germans  also,  or  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  Italians ;  but  there  will  be  a  stamp  of 
perfectness  and  inimitableness  about  it  in  the  litera- 
tures where  it  is  native,  which  it  will  not  have  in  the 
literatures  where  it  is  not  native.  Novalis^  or  Riickert,^ 
for  instance,  have  their  eye  fixed  on  nature,  and  have 
undoubtedly  a  feeling  for  natural  magic ;  a  rough- 
and-ready  critic  easily  credits  them  and  the  Germans 
with  the  Celtic  fineness  of  tact,  the  Celtic  nearness  to 
nature  and  her  secret ;  but  the  question  is  whether  the 
strokes  in  the  German's  picture  of  nature  ^  have  ever 
the  indefinable  delicacy,  charm,  and  perfection  of  the 
Celt's  touch  in  the  pieces  I  just  now  quoted,  or  of 
Shakespeare's  touch  in  his  daffodil,*  Wordsworth's  in 
his  cuckoo,5  Keats's  in  his  Autumn,  Obermann's  in 
his  mountain  birch-tree,  or  his  Easter-daisy  among  the 
Swiss  farms, ^  To  decide  where  the  gift  for  natural 
magic  originally  lies,  whether  it  is  properly  Celtic  or 
Germanic,  we  must  decide  this  question. 

In  the  second  place,  there  are  many  ways  of  han- 
dling nature,  and  we  are  here  only  concerned  with  one 


188  1VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  them  ;  but  a  rough-and-ready  critic  imagines  that  it 
is  all  the  same  so  long  as  nature  is  handled  at  all,  and 
fails  to  draw  the  needful  distinction  between  modes  of 
handling  her.  But  these  modes  are  many ;  I  will  men- 
tion four  of  them  now  :  there  is  the  conventional  way 
of  handling  nature,  there  is  the  faithfid  way  of  han- 
dling nature,  there  is  the  Greek  way  of  handling  na- 
ture, there  is  the  magical  way  of  handling  nature.  In 
all  these  three  last  the  eye  is  on  the  object,  but  with  a 
difference  ;  in  the  faithful  way  of  handhng  nature,  the 
eye  is  on  the  object,  and  that  is  all  you  can  say  ;  in 
the  Greek,  the  eye  is  on  the  object,  but  lightness  and 
brightness  are  added  ;  in  the  magical,  the  eye  is  on  the 
object,  but  charm  and  magic  are  added.  In  the  con- 
ventional way  of  handling  nature,  the  eye  is  not  on 
the  object ;  what  that  means  we  all  know,  we  have 
only  to  think  of  our  eighteenth-century  poetry :  — 

"As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night — "^ 

to  call  up  any  number  of  instances.  Latin  poetry  sup- 
plies plenty  of  instances  too  ;  if  we  put  this  from  Pro- 
pertius's  Hylas :  — 

"...  manus  beroum  .   .  . 
MoUia  composita  litora  fronds  tegit  —  "  ^ 

side  by  side  with  the  line  of  Theocritus  by  which  it 
was  suggested  :  — 

\uixu)v  yap  cr(pLv  e/cetro  M^'/as,  aTi^ddeacriv  6veiap  —  ^ 

we  get  at  the  same  moment  a  good  specimen  both  of 
the  conventional  and  of  the  Greek  way  of  handling 
nature.  But  from  our  own  poetry  we  may  get  speci- 
mens of  the  Greek  way  of  handling  nature,  as  well  as 
of  the  conventional :  for  instance,  Keats's  :  — 

"  What  little  town  by  river  or  seashore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  quiet  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ?"  * 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS      189 

is  Greek,  as  Greek  as  a  thing  from  Homer  or  Theo- 
critus ;  it  is  composed  with  the  eye  on  the  object,  a 
radiancy  and  light  clearness  being  added.  German 
poetry  abounds  in  specimens  of  the  faithful  way  of 
handling  nature  ;  an  excellent  example  is  to  be  found 
in  the  stanzas  called  Zue'ignung  ^,  prefixed  to  Goethe's 
poems  ;  the  morning  walk,  the  mist,  the  dew,  the  sun, 
are  as  faithful  as  they  can  be,  they  are  given  with  the 
eye  on  the  object,  but  there  the  merit  of  the  work,  as 
a  handling  of  nature,  stops ;  neither  Greek  radiance 
nor  Celtic  magic  is  added  ;  the  power  of  these  is  not 
what  gives  the  poem  in  question  its  merit,  but  a  power 
of  quite  another  kind,  a  power  of  moral  and  spiritual 
emotion.  But  the  power  of  Greek  radiance  Goethe 
could  give  to  his  handling  of  nature,  and  nobly  too,  as 
any  one  who  will  read  his  Wanderer,  —  the  poem  in 
which  a  wanderer  falls  in  with  a  peasant  woman  and 
her  child  by  their  hut,  built  out  of  the  ruins  of  a 
temple  near  Cuma,  —  may  see.  Only  the  power  of 
natural  magic  Goethe  does  not,  I  think,  give  ;  whereas 
Keats  passes  at  will  from  the  Greek  power  to  that 
power  which  is,  as  I  say,  Celtic  ;  from  his 

"  What  little  town,  by  river  or  seashore  —  " 


to  his 
or  his 


"  White  hawthorn  and  the  pastoral  eglantine, 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  —  "' 


"...  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn  —  "  ^ 

in  which  the  very  same  note  is  struck  as  in  those  ex- 
tracts which  I  quoted  from  Celtic  romance,  and  struck 
with  authentic  and  unmistakable  power. 

Shakespeare,  in  handling  nature,  touches  this  Celtic 
note  so  exquisitely,  that  perhaps  one  is  inclined  to  be 
always  looking  for  the  Celtic  note  in  him,  and  not  to 
recognize  his  Greek  note  when  it  comes.  But  if  one 


190  IVLVTTHEW  ARNOLD 

attends  well  to  the  difference  between  the  two  notes, 
and  bears  in  mind,  to  guide  one,  such  things  as  Vir- 
gil's "  moss-grown  springs  and  grass  softer  than 
sleep : "  — 

"  Muscosi  f  ontes  et  somno  mollior  herba  —  "  '• 
as  his  charming  flower-gatherer,  who  — 

"  Pallentes  violas  et  summa  papavera  carpens 
Narcissum  et  florem  jungit  bene  olentis  anethi  —  "* 

as  his  quinces  and  chestnuts  :  — 

"...  cana  legam  tenera  lauugine  mala 
Castaueasque  nuces  .  ,  .  "  ^ 

then,   I   think,  we  shall  be  disposed  to  say  that  in 

Shakespeare's 

"  I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows, 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine. 
With  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglantine  —  "  * 

it  is  mainly  a  Greek  note  which  is  struck.  Then,  again 

in  his 

"...  look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  !  "  " 

we  are  at  the  very  point  of  transition  from  the  Greek 

note  to  the  Celtic;   there  is  the  Greek  clearness  and 

brightness,  with  the  Celtic  aerialness  and  magic  coming 

in.   Then  we  have  the  sheer,  inimitable  Celtic  note  in 

passages  like  this  :  — 

"  Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  in  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea  —  "  ^ 

or  this,  the  last  I  will  quote :  — 

"  The  moon  shines  bright.  In  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise,  in  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls  — 

...  in  such  a  night 
Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew  — 


THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS      191 

...  in  such  a  night 
Stood  Dido,  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage."  ^ 

And  those  last  lines  of  all  are  so  drenched  and  intoxi- 
cated with  the  fairy-dew  of  that  natural  magic  which 
is  our  theme,  that  I  cannot  do  better  than  end  with 
them. 

And  now,  with  the  pieces  of  evidence  in  our  hand, 
let  us  go  to  those  who  say  it  is  vain  to  look  for  Celtic 
elements  in  any  Englishman,  and  let  us  ask  them,  first, 
if  they  seize  what  we  mean  by  the  power  of  natural 
magic  in  Celtic  poetry ;  secondly,  if  English  poetry 
does  not  eminently  exhibit  this  power ;  and,  thirdly, 
where  they  suppose  English  poetry  got  it  from? 


GEORGE   SANDi 

The  months  go  round,  and  anniversaries  return; 
on  the  ninth  of  June  George  Sand  will  have  been  dead 
just  one  year.  She  was  born  in  1804  ;  she  was  almost 
seventy-two  years  old  when  she  died.  She  came  to 
Paris  after  the  revolution  of  1830,  with  her  Indiana^ 
written,  and  began  her  life  of  independence,  her  life  of 
authorship,  her  life  as  George  Sand.  She  continued  at 
work  till  she  died.  For  forty-five  years  she  was  writing 
and  publishing,  and  filled  Europe  with  her  name. 

It  seems  to  me  but  the  other  day  that  I  saw  her,  yet 
it  was  in  the  August  of  1846,  more  than  thirty  years 
ago.  I  saw  her  in  her  own  Berry,  at  Nohant,^  where 
her  childhood  and  youth  were  passed,  where  she  re- 
turned to  live  after  she  became  famous,  where  she  died 
and  has  now  her  grave.  There  must  be  many  who,  after 
reading  her  books,  have  felt  the  same  desire  which  in 
those  days  of  my  youth,  in  1846,  took  me  to  Nohant, 
—  the  desire  to  see  the  country  and  the  places  of  which 
the  books  that  so  charmed  us  were  full.  Those  old 
provinces  of  the  centre  of  France,  primitive  and  slum- 
bering, —  Berry,  La  Marche,  Bourbonnais  ;  those  sites 
and  streams  in  them,  of  name  once  so  indifferent  to  us, 
but  to  which  George  Sand  gave  such  a  music  for  our 
ear,  —  La  Chatre,  Ste.  Severe,  the  Vallee  Noire.,  the 
Indre,  the  Creuse  ;  how  many  a  reader  of  George  Sand 
must  have  desired,  as  I  did,  after  frequenting  them  so 
much  in  thought,  fairly  to  set  eyes- upon  them  ! 

I  had  been  reading  Jeanne.'^  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
go  and  see  Tonlx  Ste.  Croix,  Boussac,  and  the  Druid- 
ical  stones  on  Mont  Barlot,  the  Pierres  Jaunatres.^ 


GEORGE  SAND  193 

I  remember  looking  out  Toulx  in  Cassini's  great  map  ^ 
at  the  Bodleian  Library.  The  railway  through  the 
centre  of  France  went  in  those  days  no  farther  than 
Vierzon.  From  Vierzon  toChateauroux  one  travelled  by 
an  ordinary  diligence,  from  Chateauroux  to  La  Chatre 
by  a  humbler  diligence,  from  La  Chatre  to  Boussac  by 
the  humblest  diligence  of  all.  At  Boussac  diligence 
ended,  a,nd patache^  began.  Between  Chsiteauroux  and 
La  Chatre,  a  mile  or  two  before  reaching  the  latter 
place,  the  road  passes  by  the  village  of  Nohant.  The 
Chateau  of  Nohant,  in  which  Madame  Sand  lived,  is  a 
plain  house  by  the  road-side,  with  a  walled  garden. 
Down  in  the  meadows,  not  far  off,  flows  the  Indre, 
bordered  by  trees.  I  passed  Nohant  without  stopping, 
at  La  Chatre  I  dined  and  changed  diligence,  and  went 
on  by  night  up  the  valley  of  the  Indre,  the  Vallee 
JV^oire,  past  Ste.  Severe  to  Boussac.  At  Ste.  Severe  the 
Indre  is  quite  a  small  stream.  In  the  darkness  we 
quitted  its  valley,  and  when  day  broke  we  were  in  the 
wilder  and  bai'er  country  of  La  Marche,  with  Boussac 
before  us,  and  its  high  castle  on  a  precipitous  rock 
over  the  Little  Creuse. 

That  day  and  the  next  I  wandered  through  a  silent 
country  of  heathy  and  ferny  landes,^  a  region  of  gran- 
ite boulders,  holly,  and  broom,  of  copsewood  and  great 
chestnut  trees ;  a  region  of  broad  light,  and  fresh 
breezes  and  wide  horizons.  I  visited  the  Pierres  Jau- 
natres.  I  stood  at  sunset  on  the  platform  of  Toulx 
Ste.  Croix,  by  the  scrawled  and  almost  effaced  stone 
lions,  —  a  relic,  it  is  said,  of  the  English  rule,  —  and 
gazed  on  the  blue  mountains  of  Auvergne  filling  the 
distance,  and  southeastward  of  them,  in  a  still  further 
and  fainter  distance,  on  what  seemed  to  be  the  moun- 
tains over  Le  Puy  and  the  high  valley  of  the  Loire. 

From  Boussac  I  addressed  to  Madame  Sand  the 


194  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

sort  of  letter  of  which  she  must  in  her  lifetime  have 
had  scores,  a  letter  conveying  to  her,  in  bad  French, 
the  homage  of  a  youthful  and  enthusiastic  foreigner 
who  had  read  her  works  with  delight.  She  received 
the  infliction  good-naturedly,  for  on  my  return  to  La 
Chatre  I  found  a  message  left  at  the  inn  by  a  servant 
from  Nohant  that  Madame  Sand  would  be  glad  to  see 
me  if  I  called.  The  mid-day  breakfast  at  Nohant  was 
not  yet  over  when  I  reached  the  house,  and  I  found  a 
large  party  assembled.  I  entered  with  some  trepida- 
tion, as  well  I  might,  considering  how  I  had  got  there  ; 
but  the  simplicity  of  Madame  Sand's  manner  put  me  at 
ease  in  a  moment.  She  named  some  of  those  present ; 
amongst  them  were  her  son  and  daughter,  the  Maurice 
and  Solange  ^  so  familiar  to  us  from  her  books,  and 
Chopin  2  with  his  wonderful  eyes.  There  was  at  that 
time  nothing  astonishing  in  Madame  Sand's  appear- 
ance. She  was  not  in  man's  clothes,  she  wore  a  sort  of 
costume  not  impossible,  I  should  think  (although  on 
these  matters  I  speak  with  hesitation),  to  members  of 
the  fair  sex  at  this  hour  amongst  ourselves,  as  an  out- 
door dress  for  the  country  or  for  Scotland.  She  made 
me  sit  by  her  and  poured  out  for  me  the  insipid  and 
depressing  beverage,  hoissonfade  et  melancolique,  as 
Balzac  called  it,  for  which  English  people  are  thought 
abroad  to  be  always  thirsting,  —  tea.  She  conversed  of 
the  country  through  which  I  had  been  wandering,  of 
the  Berry  peasants  and  their  mode  of  life,  of  Switzer- 
land, whither  I  was  going ;  she  touched  politely,  by  a 
few  questions  and  remarks,  upon  England  and  things 
and  persons  English,  —  upon  Oxford  and  Cambridge, 
Byron,  Bulwer.  As  she  spoke,  her  eyes,  head,  bearing, 
were  all  of  them  striking  ;  but  the  main  impression  she 
made  was  an  impression  of  what  I  have  already  men- 
tioned,—  of  simplicity^  frank,  cordial  simplicity.  After 


GEORGE  SAND  195 

breakfast  she  led  the  way  into  the  garden,  asked  me  a 
few  kind  questions  about  myself  and  my  plans,  gath- 
ered a  flower  or  two  and  gave  them  to  me,  shook 
hands  heartily  at  the  gate,  and  I  saw  her  no  more.  In 
1859  M.  Michelet^  gave  me  a  letter  to  her,  which 
would  have  enabled  me  to  present  myself  in  more  reg- 
ular fashion.  Madame  Sand  was  then  in  Paris.  But  a 
day  or  two  passed  before  I  could  call,  and  when  I 
called,  Madame  Sand  had  left  Paris  and  had  gone 
back  to  Nohant.  The  impression  of  1846  has  remained 
my  single  impression  of  her. 

Of  her  gaze,  form,  and  speech,  that  one  impression 
is  enough ;  better  perhaps  than  a  mixed  impression 
from  seeing  her  at  sundry  times  and  after  successive 
changes.  But  as  the  first  anniversary  of  her  death  ^ 
draws  near,  there  arises  again  a  desire  which  I  felt 
when  she  died,  the  desire,  not  indeed  to  take  a  critical 
survey  of  her,  —  very  far  from  it.  I  feel  no  inclina- 
tion at  all  to  go  regularly  through  her  productions,  to 
classify  and  value  them  one  by  one,  to  pick  out  from 
them  what  the  English  public  may  most  like,  or  to 
present  to  that  public,  for  the  most  part  ignorant  of 
George  Sand  and  for  the  most  part  indifferent  to  her, 
a  full  history  and  a  judicial  estimate  of  the  woman 
and  of  her  writings.  But  I  desire  to  recall  to  my  own 
mind,  before  the  occasion  offered  by  her  death  passes 
quite  away,  —  to  recall  and  collect  the  elements  of 
that  powerful  total-impression  which,  as  a  writer,  she 
made  upon  me  ;  to  recall  and  collect  them,  to  bring 
them  distinctly  into  view,  to  feel  them  in  all  their 
depth  and  power  once  more.  What  I  here  attempt  is 
not  for  the  benefit  of  the  indifferent ;  it  is  for  my  own 
satisfaction,  it  is  for  myself.  But  perhaps  those  for 
whom  George  Sand  has  been  a  friend  and  a  power  will 
find  an  interest  in  following  me. 


196  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Le  sentiment  de  la  vie  ideale,  qui  li'est  autre  que  la 
vie  normale  telle  que  nous  sommes  appeles  a  la  con- 
naitre  ;  ^  —  "  the  sentiment  of  the  ideal  life,  which  is 
none  other  than  man's  normal  life  as  we  shall  some 
day  know  it,"  —  those  words  from  one  of  her  last  pub- 
lications give  the  ruling  thought  of  George  Sand,  the 
ground-motive,  as  they  say  in  music,  of  all  her  strain. 
It  is  as  a  personage  inspired  by  this  motive  that  she 
interests  us. 

The  English  public  conceives  of  her  as  of  a  novel- 
writer  who  wrote  stories  more  or  less  interesting ;  the 
earlier  ones  objectionable  and  dangerous,  the  later 
ones,  some  of  them,  unexceptionable  and  fit  to  be  put 
into  the  hands  of  the  youth  of  both  sexes.  With  such 
a  conception  of  George  Sand,  a  story  of  hers  like  Con- 
suelo  2  comes  to  be  elevated  in  England  into  quite  an 
undue  relative  importance,  and  to  pass  with  very  many 
people  for  her  typical  work,  displaying  all  that  is 
really  valuable  and  significant  in  the  author.  Consu- 
elo  is  a  charming  story.  But  George  Sand  is  some- 
thing more  than  a  maker  of  charming  stories,  and 
only  a  portion  of  her  is  shown  in  Consvelo.  She  is 
more,  likewise,  than  a  creator  of  characters.  She  has 
created,  with  admirable  truth  to  nature,  characters 
most  attractive  and  attaching,  such  as  Edmee,  Gene- 
vieve, Germain.^  But  she  is  not  adequately  expressed 
by  them.  We  do  not  know  her  unless  we  feel  the 
spirit  which  goes  through  her  work  as  a  whole. 

In  order  to  feel  this  spirit  it  is  not,  indeed,  neces- 
sary to  read  all  that  she  ever  produced.  Even  three 
or  four  only  out  of  her  many  books  might  suffice  to 
show  her  to  us,  if  they  were  well  chosen ;  let  us  say, 
the  Lettres  d'un  Voyageur,  3Iauprat,  Fran<}ois  le 
Champi,'^  and  a  story  which  I  was  glad  to  see  Mr. 
Myers,^  in  his  appreciative  notice  of  Madame  Sand, 


GEORGE  SAND  197 

single  out  for  praise,  —  Valvedre.^  In  these  may  be 
found  all  the  principal  elements  of  their  author's  strain : 
the  cry  of  agony  and  revolt,  the  trust  in  nature  and 
beauty,  the  aspiration  towards  a  purged  and  renewed 
human  society. 

Of  George  Sand's  strain,  during  forty  years,  these 
are  the  grand  elements.  Now  it  is  one  of  them  which 
appears  most  prominently,  now  it  is  another.  The  cry  of 
agony  and  revolt  is  in  her  earlier  work  only,  and  passes 
away  in  her  later.  But  in  the  evolution  of  these  three 
elements, —  the  passion  of  agony  and  revolt,  the  conso- 
lation from  nature  and  from  beauty,  the  ideas  of  social 
renewal,  —  in  the  evolution  of  these  is  George  Sand 
and  George  Sand's  life  and  power.  Through  their  evo- 
lution her  constant  motive  declares  and  unfolds  itself, 
that  motive  which  we  have  set  forth  above :  "  the  sen- 
timent of  the  ideal  life,  which  is  none  other  than  man's 
normal  life  as  we  shall  one  day  know  it."  This  is  the 
motive,  and  through  these  elements  is  its  evolution  :  an 
evolution  pursued,  moreover,  with  the  most  unfailing 
resolve,  the  most  absolute  sincerity. 

The  hour  of  agony  and  revolt  passed  away  for  George 
Sand,  as  it  passed  away  for  Goethe,  as  it  passes  away 
for  their  readers  likewise.  It  passes  away  and  does  not 
return  ;  yet  those  who,  amid  the  agitations,  more  or 
less  stormy,  of  their  youth,  betook  themselves  to  the 
early  works  of  George  Sand,  may  in  later  life  cease  to 
read  them,  indeed,  but  they  can  no  more  forget  them 
than  they  can  forget  Werther.^  George  Sand  speaks 
somewhere  of  her  "days  of  Co'rinne.'"^  Days  of  Val- 
entine, many  of  us  may  in  like  manner  say,  —  days  of 
Valentine,  days  of  Lelia^  days  never  to  return  !  They 
are  gone,  we  shall  read  the  books  no  more,  and  yet  how 
ineffaceable  is  their  impression !  How  the  sentences 
from  George  Sand's  works  of  that  period  still  linger 


198  AL\TTHEW  AENOLD 

in  our  memory  and  haunt  the  ear  with  their  cadences ! 
Grandiose  and  moving,  they  come,  those  cadences,  like 
the  siofhing  of  the  wind  through  the  forest,  like  the 
breaking  of  the  waves  on  the  seashore.  Lelia  in  her 
cell  on  the  mountain  of  the  Camaldoli  — 

"  Sibyl,  Sibyl  forsaken ;  spirit  of  the  days  of  old, 
joined  to  a  brain  which  rebels  against  the  divine  in- 
spiration: broken  hn'e,  mute  instrument,  whose  tones 
the  world  of  to-day,  if  it  heard  them,  could  not  under- 
stand, but  yet  in  whose  depth  the  eternal  harmony 
muruuirs  imprisoned ;  priestess  of  death,  I,  I  who  feel 
and  know  that  before  now  I  have  been  Pythia,  have 
wept  before  now,  before  now  have  spoken,  but  who 
cannot  recollect,  alas,  cannot  utter  the  word  of  healing  I 
Yes,  yes!  I  remember  the  cavern  of  truth  and  the 
access  of  revelation :  but  the  word  of  human  destiny.  I 
have  forgotten  it ;  but  the  talisman  of  deliverance,  it 
is  lost  from  my  hand.  And  yet,  indeed,  much,  much 
have  I  seen  I  and  when  suffering  presses  me  sore,  when 
indignation  takes  hold  of  me,  when  I  feel  Prometheus 
wake  up  in  my  heart  and  beat  his  puissant  wings 
against  the  stone  which  confines  him,  —  oh  I  then,  in 
prey  to  a  frenzy  without  a  name,  to  a  despair  without 
bounds,  I  invoke  the  unknown  master  and  friend  who 
might  illumine  my  spirit  and  set  free  my  tongue ;  but 
I  grope  in  darkness,  and  my  tired  arms  grasp  nothing 
save  delusive  shadows.  And  for  ten  thousand  years,  as 
the  sole  answer  to  my  cries,  as  the  sole  comfort  in  my 
agony,  I  hear  astir,  over  this  earth  accurst,  the  despair- 
ing sob  of  impotent  agony.  For  ten  thousand  years  I 
have  cried  in  infinite  space :  Truth  !  Truth  !  For  ten 
thousand  years  infinite  space  keejis  answering  me: 
Desire^  Desire.  O  Sibyl  forsaken  I  O  mute  Pythia! 
dash  then  thy  head  against  the  rocks  of  thy  cavern, 
and  mingle  thy  raging  blood  with  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 


GEORGE  SAND  199 

for  thou  deemest  thyseK  to  have  possessed  the  ahnighty 
Word,  and  these  ten  thousand  years  thou  art  seeking 
him  in  vain."  ^ 

Or  Sylvia's  cry  over  Jacques  ^  by  his  glacier  in  the 
Tyrol— 

"  When  such  a  man  as  thou  art  is  born  into  a  world 
where  he  can  do  no  true  service ;  when,  with  the  soul 
of  an  apostle  and  the  courage  of  a  martyr,  he  has 
simply  to  push  his  way  among  the  heartless  and  aim- 
less crowds  which  vegetate  without  living;  the  atmos- 
phere suffocates  him  and  he  dies.  Hated  by  sinners, 
the  mock  of  fools,  disliked  by  the  envious,  abandoned 
by  the  weak,  what  can  he  do  but  return  to  God,  weary 
with  having  labored  in  vain,  in  sorrow  at  having  ac- 
complished nothing  ?  The  world  remains  in  all  its  vile- 
ness  and  in  all  its  hatefulness;  this  is  what  men  call, 
'  the  triumph  of  good  sense  over  enthusiasm.' "  3 

Or  Jacques  himself,  and  his  doctrine  — 

"  Life  is  arid  and  terrible,  repose  is  a  dream,  pru- 
dence is  useless;  mere  reason  alone  serves  simply  to 
dry  up  the  heart ;  there  is  but  one  virtue,  the  eternal 
sacrifice  of  oneself." 

Or  George  Sand  speaking  in  her  own  person,  in  the 
Lettres  cVun  Voyageur  — 

"  Ah,  no,  I  was  not  born  to  be  a  poet,  I  was  born 
to  love.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  my  destiny,  it  is  the 
enmity  of  others,  which  have  made  me  a  wanderer  and 
an  artist.  What  I  wanted  was  to  live  a  human  life ;  I 
had  a  heart,  it  has  been  torn  violently  from  my  breast. 
All  that  has  been  left  me  is  a  head,  a  head  full  of  noise 
and  pain,  of  horrible  memories,  of  images  of  woe,  of 
scenes  of  outrage.  And  because  in  writing  stories  to 
earn  my  bread  I  could  not  help  remembering  my  sor- 
rows, because  I  had  the  audacity  to  say  that  in  mar- 
ried life  there  were  to  be  found  miserable  beings,  by 


200  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

reason  of  the  weakness  which  is  enjoined  upon  the 
woman,  by  reason  of  the  brutality  which  is  permitted 
to  the  man,  by  reason  of  the  turpitudes  which  society 
covers  and  protects  with  a  veil,  I  am  pronounced  im- 
moral, I  am  treated  as  if  I  were  the  enemy  of  the 
human  race."  ^ 

If  only,  alas,  together  with  her  honesty  and  her 
courage,  she  could  feel  within  herself  that  she  had 
also  light  and  hope  and  power ;  that  she  was  able  to 
lead  those  whom  she  loved,  and  who  looked  to  her  for 
guidance !  But  no ;  her  very  own  children,  witnesses 
of  her  suffering,  her  uncertainty,  her  struggles,  her 
evil  report,  may  come  to  doubt  her:  — 

"  My  poor  children,  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  will 
perhaps  turn  upon  me  and  say:  'You  are  leading  us 
wrong,  you  mean  to  ruin  us  as  well  as  yourself.  Are 
you  not  unhappy,  reprobated,  evil  spoken  of?  What 
have  you  gained  by  these  unequal  struggles,  by  these 
much  trumpeted  duels  of  yours  with  custom  and  be- 
lief? Let  us  do  as  others  do;  let  us  get  what  is  to  be 
got  out  of  this  easy  and  tolerant  world.' 

"  This  is  what  they  will  say  to  me.  Or  at  best,  if,  out 
of  tenderness  for  me,  or  from  their  own  natural  dis- 
position, they  give  ear  to  my  words  and  believe  me, 
whither  shall  I  guide  them  ?  Into  what  abysses  shall 
we  go  and  plunge  ourselves,  we  three?  —  for  we  shall 
be  our  own  three  upon  earth,  and  not  one  soul  with 
us.  What  shall  I  reply  to  them  if  they  come  and  say 
to  me ;  '  Yes,  life  is  unbearable  in  a  world  like  this. 
Let  us  die  together.  Show  us  the  path  of  Bernica,  or 
the  lake  of  Stenio,  or  the  glaciers  of  Jacques.' "  2 

Nevertheless  the  failure  of  the.  impassioned  seekers 
of  a  new  and  better  world  proves  nothing,  George 
Sand  maintains,  for  the  world  as  it  is.  Ineffectual 
they  may  be,  but  the  world  is  stiU  more  ineffectual, 


GEORGE  SAND  201 

and  it  is  the  world's  course  which  is  doomed  to  ruin, 
not  theirs.  "  What  has  it  done,"  exclaims  George 
Sand  in  her  preface  to  Guerin's  Centaure^  "  what  has 
it  done  for  our  moral  education,  and  what  is  it  doing 
for  our  children,  this  society  shielded  with  such  care?" 
Nothing.  Those  whom  it  calls  vain  complainers  and 
rebels  and  madmen,  may  reply:  — 

"  Suffer  us  to  bewail  our  martyrs,  poets  without  a 
country  that  we  are,  forlorn  singers,  well  versed  in  the 
causes  of  their  misery  and  of  our  own.  You  do  not  com- 
prehend the  malady  which  killed  them  ;  they  themselves 
did  not  comprehend  it.  If  one  or  two  of  us  at  the  present 
day  open  our  eyes  to  a  new  light,  is  it  not  by  a  strange 
and  unaccountable  good  Providence  ;  and  have  we  not 
to  seek  our  grain  of  faith  in  storm  and  darkness,  com- 
bated by  doubt,  irony,  the  absence  of  all  sympathy, 
all  example,  all  brotherly  aid,  all  protection  and  coun- 
tenance in  high  places  ?  Try  yourselves  to  speak  to 
your  brethren  heart  to  heart,  conscience  to  conscience  ! 
Try  it!  —  but  you  cannot,  busied  as  you  are  with 
watching  and  patching  up  in  all  directions  your  dykes 
which  the  flood  is  invading.  The  material  existence  of 
this  society  of  yours  absorbs  all  your  care,  and  requires 
more  than  all  your  efforts.  Meanwhile  the  powers  of 
human  thought  are  growing  into  strength,  and  rise  on 
all  sides  around  you.  Amongst  these  threatening  ap- 
paritions, there  are  some  wliich  fade  away  and  reenter 
the  darkness,  because  the  hour  of  life  has  not  yet 
struck,  and  the  fiery  spirit  which  quickened  them 
could  strive  no  longer  with  the  horrors  of  this  present 
chaos;  but  there  are  others  that  can  wait,  and  you 
will  find  them  confronting  you,  up  and  alive,  to  say  : 
'  You  have  allowed  the  death  of  our  brethren,  and  we, 
we  do  not  mean  to  die.'  " 

She  did  not,  indeed.  How  should  she  faint  and  fail 


202  iVL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

before  her  time,  because  of  a  world  out  of  joint,  because 
of  the  reign  of  stupidity,  because  of  the  jDassions  of  j'outh, 
because  of  the  difficulties  and  disgusts  of  married  life  in 
the  native  seats  of  the  homme  sensuel  moyen,  the  aver- 
age sensual  man,  she  who  could  feel  so  well  the  power 
of  those  eternal  consolers,  nature  and  beauty?  From 
the  very  first  they  introduce  a  note  of  suavity  in  her 
strain  of  grief  and  passion.  Who  can  forget  the  lanes 
and  meadows  of  Valentine  ? 

George  Sand  is  one  of  the  few  French  writers  who 
keep  us  closely  and  truly  intimate  with  rural  nature.  She 
gives  us  the  wild-flowers  by  their  actual  names,  —  snow- 
drop, primrose,  columbine,  iris,  scabious.  Nowhere 
has  she  touched  her  native  Berry  and  its  little-known 
landscape,  its  campagnes  ignorees,  with  a  lovelier  charm 
than  in  Valentine.  The  winding  and  deep  lanes  running 
out  of  the  high  road  on  either  side,  the  fresh  and  calm 
spots  they  take  us  to, "  meadows  of  a  tender  green,  plain- 
tive brooks,  clumps  of  alder  and  mountain  ash,  a  whole 
world  of  suave  and  pastoral  nature,"  —  how  delicious  it 
all  is  I  The  grave  and  silent  peasant  whose  very  dog  will 
hardly  deign  to  bark  at  you,  the  great  white  ox,  "  the 
unfailing  dean  of  these  pastures,"  staring  solemnly  at 
you  from  the  thicket ;  the  farmhouse  "  with  its  avenue  of 
maples,  and  the  Indre,  here  hardlj'  more  than  a  bright 
ri%'ulet,  stealing  along  through  rushes  and  j-ellow  iris,  in 
the  field  below,"  —  who,  I  say,  can  forget  them?  And 
that  one  lane  in  especial,  the  lane  where  Athenais  puts 
her  arm  out  of  the  side  window  of  the  rustic  carriage  and 
gathers  May  from  the  overarching  hedge,  —  that  lane 
\vith  its  startled  blackbirds,  and  humming  insects,  and 
limpid  water,  and  swaying  water-plants,  and  shelving 
gravel,  and  yellow  wagtails  hopping,  half-pert,  half- 
frightened,  on  the  sand,  —  that  lane  with  its  rushes, 
cresses,  and  mint  below,  its  honeysuckle  and  traveller's- 


GEORGE  SAND  203 

joy  above, — how  gladly  might  one  give  all  that  strangely 
English  picture  in  English,  if  the  charm  of  Madame 
Sand's  language  did  not  here  defy  translation  !  Let  us 
try  something  less  difficult,  and  yet  something  where 
we  may  still  have  her  in  this  her  beloved  world  of 
"  simplicity,  and  sky,  and  fields  and  trees,  and  peasant 
life,  —  peasant  life  looked  at,  by  preference,  on  its  good 
and  sound  side."  Voyez  done  la  simplicite,  vous  autres, 
voyez  le  del  et  las  champs^  et  les  arbres,  et  les paysans^ 
surtout  dans  ce  quils  ont  de  hon  et  de  vrai. 

The  introduction  to  Xa  Mare  an  Diable  will  give 
us  what  we  want.  George  Sand  has  been  looking  at  an 
engraving  of  Holbein's  Laborer.^  An  old  thick-set 
peasant,  in  rags,  is  driving  his  plough  in  the  midst  of 
a  field.  All  around  spreads  a  wild  landscape,  dotted  with 
a  few  poor  huts.  The  sun  is  setting  behind  a  hill ;  the 
day  of  toil  is  nearly  over.  It  has  been  a  hard  one ;  the 
groimd  is  rugged  and  stony,  the  laborer's  horses  are 
but  skin  and  bone,  weak  and  exhausted.  There  is  but 
one  alert  figure,  the  skeleton  Death,  who  with  a  whip 
skips  nimbly  along  at  the  horses'  side  and  urges  the 
team.  Under  the  picture  is  a  quotation  in  old  French, 
to  the  effect  that  after  the  laborer's  life  of  travail  and 
service,  in  which  he  has  to  gain  his  bread  by  the  sweat 
of  his  brow,  here  comes  Death  to  fetch  him  away.  And 
from  so  rude  a  life  does  Death  take  him,  says  George 
Sand,  that  Death  is  hardly  unwelcome ;  and  in  an- 
other composition  by  Holbein,  where  men  of  almost 
every  condition,  —  popes,  sovereigns,  lovers,  gamblers, 
monks,  soldiers,  —  are  taunted  with  their  fear  of  Death 
and  do  indeed  see  his  approach  with  terror,  Lazarus 
alone  is  easy  and  composed,  and  sitting  on  his  dung- 
hill at  the  rich  man's  door,  tells  Death  that  he  does 
not  dread  him. 

With   her   thoughts   full   of    Holbein's    mournful 


204  IVIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

picture,  George  Sand  goes  out  into  the  fields  of  her 
own  Berry :  — 

"  My  walk  was  by  the  border  of  a  field  which  some 
peasants  were  getting  ready  for  being  sown  presentl3\ 
The  space  to  be  ploughed  was  wide,  as  in  Holbein's  pic- 
ture. The  landscape  was  vast  also ;  the  great  lines  of 
green  which  it  contained  were  just  touched  with  rus- 
set by  the  approach  of  autumn  ;  on  the  rich  brown  soil 
recent  rain  had  left,  in  a  good  many  furrows,  lines  of 
water,  which  shone  in  the  sun  like  silver  threads.  The 
day  was  clear  and  soft,  and  the  earth  gave  out  a  light 
smoke  where  it  had  been  freshly  laid  open  by  the 
ploughshare.  At  the  top  of  the  field  an  old  man,  whose 
broad  back  and  severe  face  were  like  those  of  the  old 
peasant  of  Holbein,  but  whose  clothes  told  no  tale  of 
poverty,  was  gravely  driving  his  plough  of  an  antique 
shape,  drawn  by  two  tranquil  oxen,  with  coats  of  a  pale 
buff,  real  patriarchs  of  the  fallow,  tall  of  make,  some- 
what thin,  with  long  and  backward-sloping  horns,  the 
kind  of  old  workmen  who  by  habit  have  got  to  be  hrothers 
to  one  another,  as  throughout  our  country-side  they  are 
called,  and  who,  if  one  loses  the  other,  refuse  to  work 
with  a  new  comrade,  and  fret  themselves  to  death. 
People  unacquainted  with  the  country  wiU  not  believe 
in  this  affection  of  the  ox  for  his  yoke-fellow.  They 
should  come  and  see  one  of  the  poor  beasts  in  a  coi'ner 
of  his  stable,  thin,  wasted,  lashing  with  his  restless 
tail  his  lean  flanks,  blowing  uneasily  and  fastidiously 
on  the  provender  offered  to  him,  his  eyes  forever  turned 
towards  the  stable  door,  scratching  with  his  foot  the 
empty  place  left  at  his  side,  sniffing  the  yokes  and 
bands  which  his  companion  has  worn,  and  incessantly 
calling  for  him  with  piteous  lowings.  The  ox-herd  will 
tell  you :  Tliere  is  a  pair  of  oxen  done  for !  his  brother 
is  dead,  and  this  one  will  work  no  more.   He  ought  to 


GEORGE  SAND  205 

be  fattened  for  killing ;  but  we  cannot  get  him  to  eat, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  will  have  starved  himself  to 
death."  1 

How  faithful  and  close  it  is,  this  contact  of  George 
Sand  with  country  things,  with  the  life  of  nature  in 
its  vast  plenitude  and  pathos !  And  always  in  the  end 
the  human  interest,  as  is  right,  emerges  and  predom- 
inates. What  is  the  central  figure  in  the  fresh  and 
calm  rural  world  of  George  Sand?  It  is  the  peasant. 
And  what  is  the  peasant?  He  is  France,  life,  the 
future.  And  this  is  the  strength  of  George  Sand,  and 
of  her  second  movement,  after  the  first  movement  of 
energy  and  revolt  was  over,  towards  nature  and  beauty, 
towards  the  country,  towards  primitive  life,  the  peas- 
ant. She  regarded  nature  and  beauty,  not  with  the 
selfish  and  solitary  joy  of  the  artist  who  but  seeks  to 
appropriate  them  for  his  own  purposes,  she  regarded 
them  as  a  treasure  of  immense  and  hitherto  unknown 
application,  as  a  vast  power  of  healing  and  delight 
for  all,  and  for  the  peasant  first  and  foremost.  Yes, 
she  cries,  the  simple  life  is  the  true  one  !  but  the  peas- 
ant, the  great  organ  of  that  life,  "  the  minister  in  that 
vast  temple  which  only  the  sky  is  vast  enough  to  em- 
brace," the  peasant  is  not  doomed  to  toil  and  moil  in 
it  forever,  overdone  and  unawakened,  like  Holbein's 
laborer,  and  to  have  for  his  best  comfort  the  thousht 
that  death  will  set  him  free.  iVbn,  notis  iiavons  plus 
affaire  a  la  mort,  mais  a  la  vie?  "  Our  business 
henceforth  is  not  with  death,  but  with  life." 

Joy  is  the  great  lifter  of  men,  the  great  unfolder. 
11  f ant  que  la  vie  soit  bonne  afin  quelle  soit  feconde. 
"  For  life  to  be  fruitful,  life  must  be  felt  as  a  bless- 
ing": — 

"  Nature  is  eternally  young,  beautiful,  bountiful. 
She  pours  out  beauty  and  poetry  for  all  that  live,  she 


206  AL\TTHEW  ARXOLD 

pours  it  out  on  all  plants,  and  the  plants  are  per- 
mitted to  expand  in  it  freely.  She  possesses  the  secret 
of  happiness,  and  no  man  has  been  able  to  take  it 
away  from  her.  The  happiest  of  men  would  be  he  who 
possessing  the  science  of  his  labor  and  working  vnth. 
his  hands,  earning  his  comfort  and  his  freedom  by  the 
exercise  of  his  intelligent  force,  found  time  to  live  by 
the  heart  and  by  the  brain,  to  understand  his  own 
work  and  to  love  the  work  of  God.  The  artist  has 
satisfactions  of  this  kind  in  the  contemplation  and  re- 
production of  nature's  beauty ;  but  when  he  sees  the 
affliction  of  those  who  people  this  paradise  of  earth, 
the  upright  and  human-hearted  artist  feels  a  trouble 
in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyment.  The  happy  day  will  be 
when  mind,  heart,  and  hands  shall  be  alive  together, 
shall  work  in  concert ;  when  there  shall  be  a  harmony 
between  God's  munificence  and  man's  delight  in  it. 
Then,  instead  of  the  piteous  and  frightful  figure  of 
Death,  skipping  along  whip  in  hand  by  the  peasant's 
side  in  the  field,  the  allegorical  painter  will  place  there 
a  radiant  angel,  sowing  with  full  hands  the  blessed 
grain  in  the  smoking  furrow. 

"  And  the  dream  of  a  kindly,  free,  poetic,  laborious, 
simple  existence  for  the  tiller  of  the  field  is  not  so 
hard  to  realize  that  it  must  be  banished  into  the  world 
of  chimaeras.  Virgil's  sweet  and  sad  cvj :  '  O  happy 
peasants,  if  they  but  knew  their  own  blessings  I '  is  a 
regret ;  but  like  all  regrets,  it  is  at  the  same  time  a 
prediction.  The  day  will  come  when  the  laborer  may 
be  also  an  artist ;  —  not  in  the  sense  of  rendering 
nature's  beauty,  a  matter  which  will  be  then  of  much 
less  importance,  but  in  the  sense  of  feeling  it.  Does 
not  this  mysterious  intuition  of  poetic  beauty  exist 
in  him  already  in  the  form  of  instinct  and  of  vague 
reverie?  "  ^ 


GEORGE  SAND  207 

It  exists  in  him,  too,  adds  Madame  Sand,  in  the 
form  of  that  nostalgia,  that  homesickness,  which  for- 
ever pursues  the  genuine  French  peasant  if  you  trans- 
plant him.  The  peasant  has  here,  then,  the  elements  of 
the  poetic  sense,  and  of  its  high  and  pure  satisfactions. 

"  But  one  part  of  the  enjoyment  which  we  possess 
is  wanting  to  him,  a  pure  and  lofty  pleasure  which  is 
surely  his  due,  minister  that  he  is  in  that  vast  temple 
which  only  the  sky  is  vast  enough  to  embrace.  He 
has  not  the  conscious  knowledge  of  his  sentiment. 
Those  who  have  sentenced  him  to  servitude  from  his 
mother's  womb,  not  being  able  to  debar  him  from 
reverie,  have  debarred  him  from  reflection. 

"  Well,  for  all  that,  taking  the  peasant  as  he  is,  in- 
complete and  seemingly  condemned  to  an  eternal  child- 
hood, I  yet  find  him  a  more  beautiful  object  than  the 
man  in  whom  his  acquisition  of  knowledge  has  stifled 
sentiment.  Do  not  rate  yourselves  so  high  above  him, 
many  of  you  who  imagine  that  you  have  an  impre- 
scriptible right  to  his  obedience  ;  for  you  yourselves 
are  the  most  incomplete  and  the  least  seeing  of  men. 
That  simplicity  of  his  soul  is  more  to  be  loved  than  the 
false  lights  of  yours."  ^ 

In  all  this  we  are  passing  from  the  second  element 
in  George  Sand  to  the  third,  —  her  aspiration  for  a 
social  new-birth,  a  renaissance  sociale.  It  is  eminently 
the  ideal  of  France  ;  it  was  hers.  Her  religion  con- 
nected itself  with  this  ideal.  In  the  convent  where  she 
was  brought  up,  she  had  in  youth  had  an  awakening 
of  fervent  mystical  piety  in  the  Catholic  form.  That 
form  she  could  not  keep.  Popular  religion  of  all  kinds, 
with  its  deep  internal  impossibilities,  its  "  heaven  and 
hell  serving  to  cover  the  illogical  manifestations  of 
the  Divinity's  apparent  designs  respecting  us,"  its 
*'  God  made  in  our  image,  silly  and  malicious,  vain 


208  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

and  puerile,  irritable  or  tender,  after  our  fashion," 
lost  all  sort  of  hold  upon  her  :  — 

"  Communion  with  such  a  God  is  impossible  to  me, 
I  confess  it.  He  is  wiped  out  from  my  memory :  there 
is  no  corner  where  I  can  find  him  any  more.  Nor  do  I 
find  such  a  God  out  of  doors  either ;  he  is  not  in  the 
fields  and  waters,  he  is  not  in  the  starry  sky.  No,  nor 
yet  in  the  churches  where  men  bow  themselves  ;  it  is 
an  extinct  message,  a  dead  letter,  a  thought  that  has 
done  its  day.  Nothing  of  this  belief,  nothing  of  this 
God,  subsists  in  me  any  longer."  i 

She  refused  to  lament  over  the  loss,  to  esteem  it 
other  than  a  benefit :  — 

"  It  is  an  addition  to  our  stock  of  light,  this  detach- 
ment from  the  idolatrous  conception  of  religion.  It  is 
no  loss  of  the  religious  sense,  as  the  persisters  in  idol- 
atry maintain.  It  is  quite  the  contrary,  it  is  a  restitu- 
tion of  allegiance  to  the  true  Divinity.  It  is  a  step  made 
in  the  direction  of  this  Divinity,  it  is  an  abjuration  of 
the  dogmas  which  did  him  dishonor."  2 

She  does  not  attempt  to  give  of  this  Divinity  an 
account  much  more  precise  than  that  which  we  have 
in  Wordsworth,  —  "  a  presence  that  disturbs  me  with 
the  joy  of  animating  thoughts.^^^ 

"Everything  is  divine  (she  says),  even  matter; 
everything  is  superhuman,  even  man.  God  is  every- 
where ;  he  is  in  me  in  a  measure  proportioned  to  the 
little  that  I  am.  My  present  life  separates  me  from 
him  just  in  the  degree  determined  by  the  actual  state 
of  childhood  of  our  race.  Let  me  content  myself,  in 
all  my  seeking,  to  feel  after  him,  and  to  possess  of  him 
as  much  as  this  imperfect  soul  can  take  in  with  the 
intellectual  sense  I  have."* 
And  she  concludes  :  — 
"  The  day  will  come  when  we  shall  no  longer  talk 


GEORGE  SAND  209 

about  God  idly,  nay,  when  we  shall  talk  about  him  as 
little  as  possible.  We  shall  cease  to  set  him  forth  dog- 
matically, to  dispute  about  his  nature.  We  shall  put 
compulsion  on  no  one  to  pray  to  him,  we  shall  leave 
the  whole  business  of  worship  within  the  sanctuary  of 
each  man's  conscience.  And  this  will  happen  when  we 
are  really  religious."  ^ 

Meanwhile  the  sense  of  this  spirit  or  presence  which 
animates  us,  the  sense  of  the  divine,  is  our  stronghold 
and  our  consolation.  A  man  may  say  of  it :  "  It  comes 
not  by  my  desert,  but  the  atom  of  divine  sense  given 
to  me  nothing  can  rob  me  of."  Divine  sense,  —  the 
phrase  is  a  vague  one  ;  but  it  stands  to  Madame  Sand 
for  that  to  which  are  to  be  referred  "  all  the  best 
thoughts  and  the  best  actions  of  life,  suffering  endured, 
duty  achieved,  whatever  purifies  our  existence,  what- 
ever vivifies  our  love." 

Madame  Sand  is  a  Frenchwoman,  and  her  religion 
is  therefore,  as  we  might  expect,  with  peculiar  fervency 
social.  Always  she  has  before  her  mind  ''  the  natural 
law  which  will  have  it  (the  italics  are  her  own)  that 
the  species  man  cannot  subsist  and  prosper  but  by 
association."  Whatever  else  we  may  be  in  creation, 
we  are,  first  and  foremost,  "  at  the  head  of  the  species 
which  are  called  by  instinct,  and  led  by  necessity,  to 
the  life  of  association."  The  word  love  —  the  great 
word,  as  she  justly  says,  of  the  New  Testament  — 
acquires  from  her  social  enthusiasm  a  peculiar  sig- 
nificance to  her : — 

"  The  word  is  a  great  one,  because  it  involves  infi- 
nite consequences.  To  love  means  to  help  one  another, 
to  have  joint  aspirations,  to  act  in  concert,  to  labor  for 
the  same  end,  to  develop  to  its  ideal  consummation  the 
fraternal  instinct,  thanks  to  which  mankind  have 
brought  the  earth  under  their  dominion.  Every  time 


210  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

that  he  has  been  false  to  this  instinct  which  is  his  law 
of  life,  his  natural  destiny-,  man  has  seen  his  temples 
crumble,  his  societies  dissolve,  his  intellectual  sense 
go  wrono^,  his  moral  sense  die  out.  The  future  is  founded 
on  love."  ^ 

So  long  as  love  is  thus  spoken  of  in  the  general, 
the  ordinary  serious  Englishman  will  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  inclining  himself  with  respect  while  Madame 
Sand  speaks  of  it.  But  when  he  finds  that  love  implies, 
with  her,  social  equality,  he  will  begin  to  be  staggered. 
And  in  truth  for  almost  every  Englishman  Madame 
Sand's  strong  language  about  equality,  and  about 
France  as  the  chosen  vessel  for  exhibiting  it,  will 
sound  exaggerated.  "  The  human  ideal,"  she  says,  ''as 
well  as  the  social  ideal,  is  to  achieve  equality."  2  France, 
which  has  made  equality  its  rallying  cry,  is  therefore 
"  the  nation  which  loves  aud  is  loved,"  la  nation  qui 
aime  et  qu'on  aime.  The  republic  of  equality  is  in  her 
eyes  "  an  ideal,  a  philosophy,  a  religion."  She  invokes 
the  "  holy  doctrine  of  social  liberty  and  fraternal  equal- 
ity, ever  reappearing  as  a  ray  of  love  and  truth  amidst 
the  storm."  She  calls  it  "the  goal  of  man  and  the  law 
of  the  future."  She  thinks  it  the  secret  of  the  civiliza- 
tion of  France,  the  most  civilized  of  nations.  Amid 
the  disasters  of  the  late  war  she  cannot  forbear  a  cry 
of  astonishment  at  the  neutral  nations,  insensihles  a 
Vegorgement  cTune  civilisation  comme  la  nbtre,  "look- 
ing on  with  insensibility  while  a  civilization  such  as 
ours  has  its  throat  cut."  Germany,  with  its  stupid 
ideal  of  corporalism  and  Kruppism,  is  contrasted  with 
France,  full  of  social  dreams,  too  civilized  for  war, 
incapable  of  planning  and  preparing  war  for  twenty 
years,  she  is  so  incapable  of  hatred ;  —  nous  sommes  si 
incapables  de  ha'irf  We  seem  to  be  listening,  not  to 
George  Sand,  but  to  M.  Victor  Hugo,  half  genius, 


GEORGE  SAND  211 

half  charlatan  ;  to  M.  Victor  Hugo,  or  even  to  one  of 
those  French  declaimers  in  whom  we  come  down  to  no 
genius  and  all  charlatan. 

The  form  of  such  outbursts  as  we  have  quoted  will 
always  be  distasteful  to  an  Englishman.  It  is  to  be 
remembered  that  they  came  from  Madame  Sand  under 
the  pressure  and  anguish  of  the  terrible  calamities  of 
1870.  But  what  we  are  most  concerned  with,  and 
what  Englishmen  in  general  regard  too  little,  is  the 
degree  of  truth  contained  in  these  allegations  that 
France  is  the  most  civilized  of  nations,  and  that  she 
is  so,  above  all,  by  her  "  holy  doctrine  of  equality." 
How  comes  the  idea  to  be  so  current ;  and  to  be  pas- 
sionately believed  in,  as  we  have  seen,  by  such  a  wo- 
man as  George  Sand  ?  It  was  so  passionately  believed 
in  by  her,  that  when  one  seeks,  as  I  am  now  seeking, 
to  recall  her  image,  the  image  is  incomplete  if  the 
passionate  belief  is  kept  from  appearing. 

I  will  not,  with  my  scanty  space,  now  discuss  the 
belief ;  but  I  will  seek  to  indicate  how  it  must  have 
commended  itself,  I  think,  to  George  Sand.  I  have 
somewhere  called  France  "  the  country  of  Europe 
where  the  people  is  most  alive."  ^  The  people  is  what 
interested  George  Sand.  And  in  France  the  people  is, 
above  all,  the  peasant.  The  workman  in  Paris  or  in 
other  great  towns  of  France  may  afford  material  for 
such  pictures  as  those  which  M.  Zola^  has  lately  given 
us  in  U Assommoir — pictures  of  a  kind  long  ago 
labelled  by  Madame  Sand  as  "  the  literature  of  mys- 
teries of  iniquity,  which  men  of  talent  and  imagina- 
tion try  to  bring  into  fashion."  But  the  real  i^eople  in 
France,  the  foundation  of  things  there,  both  in  George 
Sand's  eyes  and  in  reality,  is  the  peasant.  The  peasant 
was  the  object  of  Madame  Sand's  fondest  predilections 
in  the  present,  and  happiest  hopes  in  the  future.  The 


212  AL\TTHEW  AKNOLD 

Revolution  and  its  doctrine  of  equality  had  made  the 
French  peasant.  "What  wonder,  then,  if  she  saluted 
the  doctrine  as  a  holy  and  paramount  one  ? 

And  the  French  peasant  is  really,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  the  largest  and  strongest  element  of  soundness 
which  the  body  social  of  any  European  nation  pos- 
sesses. To  him  is  due  that  astonishing  recovery  which 
France  has  made  since  her  defeat,  and  which  George 
Sand  predicted  in  the  very  hour  of  ruin.  Yes,  in  1870 
she  predicted  ce  reveil  general  qui  va  siiivre,  a  la 
grande  surjirise  des  autres  nations,  Vespece  d'agonie 
oil  elles  nous  voient  tomhes}  "  the  general  re-arising 
which,  to  the  astonishment  of  other  nations,  is  about 
to  follow  the  sort  of  agon}'  in  which  they  now  see  us 
lying."  To  the  condition,  character,  and  qualities  of 
the  French  peasant  this  recovery  is  in  the  main  due. 
His  material  well-being  is  known  to  all  of  us.  M.  de 
Laveleye,^  the  well-known  economist,  a  Belgian  and  a 
Protestant,  says  that  France,  being  the  country  of 
Europe  where  the  soil  is  more  divided  than  anywhere 
except  in  Switzerland  and  Norway,  is  at  the  same  time 
the  country  where  well-being  is  most  widely  spread, 
where  wealth  has  of  late  years  increased  most,  and 
where  population  is  least  outrunning  the  limits  which, 
for  the  comfort  and  progress  of  the  working  classes 
themselves,  seem  necessary.  Geoi'ge  Sand  could  see, 
of  course,  the  well-being  of  the  French  peasant,  for 
we  can  all  see  it. 

But  there  is  more.  George  Sand  was  a  woman,  with 
a  woman's  ideal  of  gentleness,  of  "  the  charm  of  good 
manners,"  as  essential  to  civilization.  She  has  some- 
where spoken  admirably  of  the  variety  and  balance  of 
forces  which  go  to  make  up  true  civilization  ;  "  certain 
forces  of  weakness,  docility,  attractiveness,  sua-vnty,  are 
here  just  as  real  forces  as  forces  of  vigor,  encroach- 


GEORGE  SAND  213 

ment,  violence,  or  brutality."  Yes,  as  real  forces, 
although  Prince  Bismarck  cannot  see  it ;  because  hu- 
man nature  requires  them,  and,  often  as  they  may  be 
baffled,  and  slow  as  may  be  the  process  of  their  assert- 
ing themselves,  mankind  is  not  satisfied  with  its  own 
civilization,  and  keeps  fidgeting  at  it  and  altering  it 
again  and  again,  until  room  is  made  for  them.  George 
Sand  thought  the  French  people,  —  meaning  princi- 
pally, again,  by  the  French  people  the  people  properly 
so  called,  the  peasant,  —  she  thought  it  "  the  most 
kindly,  the  most  amiable,  of  all  peoples."  Nothing  is 
more  touching  than  to  read  in  her  Jourjial,  written 
in  1870,  while  she  was  witnessing  what  seemed  to  be 
"  the  agony  of  the  Latin  races,"  and  undergoing  what 
seemed  to  be  the  process  of  "  dying  in  a  general  death 
of  one's  family,  one's  country,  and  one's  nation,"  how 
constant  is  her  defence  of  the  people,  the  peasant, 
against  her  Republican  friends.  Her  Republican 
friends  were  furious  with  the  peasant ;  accused  him 
of  stolidity,  cowardice,  want  of  patriotism  ;  accused 
him  of  having  given  them  the  Empire,  with  all  its 
vileness ;  wanted  to  take  away  from  him  the  suffrage. 
Again  and  again  does  George  Sand  take  up  his  de- 
fence, and  warn  her  friends  of  the  folly  and  danger 
of  their  false  estimate  of  him.  "  The  contempt  of  the 
masses,  there,"  she  cries,  "  is  the  misfortune  and  crime 
of  the  present  moment !  "  ^  "  To  execrate  the  people," 
she  exclaims  again,  "  is  real  blasphemy ;  the  people  is 
worth  more  than  we  are." 

If  the  peasant  gave  us  the  Empire,  says  Madame 
Sand,  it  was  because  he  saw  the  parties  of  liberals 
disputing,  gesticulating,  and  threatening  to  tear  one 
another  asunder  and  France  too ;  he  was  told  the 
Empire  is  peace,  and  he  accepted  the  Empire.  The 
peasant  was  deceived,  he  is  uninstructed,  he  moves 


214  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

slowly ;  but  lie  moves,  lie  has  admirable  virtues,  and 
in  him,  says  George  Sand,  is  our  life  :  — 

"  Poor  Jacques  Bonhomme  !  accuse  thee  and  despise 
thee  who  will ;  for  my  part  1  pity  thee,  and  in  spite 
of  thy  faults  I  shall  always  love  thee.  Never  will  I 
forget  how,  a  child,  I  was  carried  asleep  on  thy  shoul- 
ders, how  I  was  given  over  to  thy  care  and  followed 
thee  everywhere,  to  the  field,  the  stall,  the  cottage. 
They  are  all  dead,  those  good  old  people  who  have 
borne  me  in  their  arms ;  but  I  remember  them  well, 
and  I  appreciate  at  this  hour,  to  the  minutest  detail, 
the  pureness,  the  kindness,  the  patience,  the  good 
humor,  the  poetry,  which  presided  over  that  rustic 
education  amidst  disasters  of  like  kind  with  those 
which  we  are  undergoing  now.  Why  should  I  quarrel 
with  the  peasant  because  on  certain  points  he  feels 
and  thinks  differently  from  what  I  do?  There  are 
other  essential  points  on  which  we  may  feel  eternally 
at  one  with  him,  —  probity  and  charity."  ^ 

Another  generation  of  peasants  had  grown  up  since 
that  first  revolutionary  generation  of  her  youth,  and 
equality,  as  its  reign  proceeded,  had  not  deteriorated 
but  improved  them. 

"  They  have  advanced  greatly  in  self-respect  and 
well-being,  these  peasants  fi-om  twenty  years  old  to 
forty:  they  never  ask  for  anything.  When  one  meets 
them  they  no  longer  take  off  their  hat.  If  they  know 
you  they  come  up  to  you  and  hold  out  their  hand. 
All  foreigners  who  stay  with  us  are  struck  with  their 
good  bearing,  with  their  amenity,  and  the  simple, 
friendly,  and  polite  ease  of  their  behavior.  In  presence 
of  people  whom  they  esteem  they  are,  like  their  fathers, 
models  of  tact  and  politeness  ;  but  they  have  more  than 
that  mere  sentiment  of  equality  which  was  all  that 
their  fathers  had,  —  they  have  the  idea  of  equality, 


GEORGE  SAND  215 

and  the  determination  to  maintain  it.  This  step  up- 
wards they  owe  to  their  having-  the  franchise.  Those 
who  would  fain  treat  them  as  creatures  of  a  lower 
order  dare  not  now  show  this  disposition  to  their 
face  ;  it  would  not  be  pleasant."  ^ 

Mr.  Hamerton's^  interesting  book  about  French 
life  has  much,  I  think,  to  confirm  this  account  of  the 
French  peasant.  What  I  have  seen  of  France  myself 
(and  I  have  seen  something)  is  fully  in  agreement 
with  it.  Of  a  civilization  and  an  equality  which  makes 
the  peasant  thus  human,  gives  to  the  bulk  of  the 
people  well-being,  probity,  charity,  self-respect,  tact, 
and  good  manners,  let  us  pardon  Madame  Sand  if 
she  feels  and  speaks  enthusiastically.  Some  little  vari- 
ation on  our  own  eternal  trio  of  Barbarians,  Philis- 
tines, Populace,^  or  on  the  eternal  solo  of  Philistinism 
among  our  brethren  of  the  United  States  and  the 
Colonies,  is  surely  permissible. 

Where  one  is  more  inclined  to  differ  from  Madame 
Sand  is  in  her  estimate  of  her  Republican  friends 
of  the  educated  classes.  They  may  stand,  she  says, 
for  the  genius  and  the  soul  of  France ;  they  repre- 
sent its  "  exalted  imagination  and  profound  sensibil- 
ity," while  the  peasant  represents  its  humble,  sound, 
indispensable  body.  Her  protege,  the  peasant,  is  much 
ruder  with  those  eloquent  gentlemen,  and  has  his  own 
name  for  one  and  all  of  them,  Vavocat,  by  which  he 
means  to  convey  his  belief  that  wor'ds  are  more  to  be 
looked  for  from  that  quarter  than  seriousness  and 
profit.  It  seems  to  me  by  no  means  certain  but  that 
the  peasant  is  in  the  right. 

George  Sand  herself  has  said  admirable  things  of 
these  friends  of  hers ;  of  their  want  of  patience,  tem- 
per, wisdom ;  of  their  "  vague  and  violent  way  of 
talking  "  ;  of  their  interminable  flow  of  "  stimulating 


216  IVLVTTHEW  ARNOLD 

phrases,  cold  as  death."  Her'  own  place  is  of  course 
with  the  party  and  propaganda  of  organic  change. 
But  George  Sand  felt  the  poetry  of  the  past ;  she  had 
no  hatreds ;  the  furies,  the  follies,  the  self-deceptions 
of  secularist  and  revolutionist  fanatics  filled  her  with 
dismay.  They  are,  indeed,  the  great  danger  of  France, 
and  it  is  amongst  the  educated  and  articulate  classes 
of  France  that  they  prevail.  If  the  educated  and 
articulate  classes  in  France  were  as  sound  in  their 
way  as  the  inarticulate  peasant  Is  in  his,  France 
would  present  a  different  spectacle.  Not  "imagination 
and  sensibility  "  are  so  much  required  from  the  edu- 
cated classes  of  France,  as  simpler,  more  serious  views 
of  life;  a  knowledge  how  great  a  part  conduct  (if 
M.  Challemel-Lacour  1  will  allow  me  to  say  so)  fills 
in  it;  a  better  example.  The  few  who  see  this,  such 
as  Madame  Sand  among  the  dead,  and  M.  Renan^ 
among  the  living,  perhaps  awaken  on  that  account, 
amongst  quiet  observers  at  a  distance,  all  the  more 
sympathy ;  but  in  France  they  are  isolated. 

All  the  later  work  of  George  Sand,  however,  all  her 
hope  of  genuine  social  renovation,  take  the  simple  and 
serious  ground  so  necessary.  "  The  cure  for  us  is  far 
more  simple  than  we  will  believe.  All  the  better 
natures  amongst  us  see  it  and  feel  it.  It  is  a  good 
direction  given  by  ourselves  to  our  hearts  and  con- 
sciences ;  —  line  honne  direction  donnee  par  nous- 
mhnes  a  nos  cmnrs  et  a  nos  consciences.^^  ^  These  are 
among  the  last  words  of  her  Journal  of  1870. 

Whether  or  not  the  number  of  George  Sand's 
works  —  always  fresh,  always  attractive,  but  poured 
out  too  lavishly  and  rapidly  —  is  likely  to  prove  a 
hindrance  to  her  fame,  I  do  not  care  to  consider. 
Posterity,  alarmed  at  the  way  in  which  its  literary 


GEORGE  SAND  217 

baggage  grows  upon  it,  always  seeks  to  leave  behind 
it  as  much  as  it  can,  as  much  as  it  dares,  —  every- 
thing but  masterpieces.  But  the  immense  vibration  of 
George  Sand's  voice  upon  the  ear  of  Europe  will  not 
soon  die  away.  Her  passions  and  her  errors  have  been 
abundantly  talked  of.  She  left  them  behind  her,  and 
men's  memory  of  her  will  leave  them  behind  also. 
There  will  remain  of  her  to  mankind  the  sense  of 
benefit  and  stimulus  from  the  passage  upon  earth  of 
that  large  and  frank  nature,  of  that  large  and  pure 
utterance,  —  the  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods. 
There  will  remain  an  admiring  and  ever  widening  re- 
port of  that  great  and  ingenuous  soul,  simple,  affec- 
tionate, without  vanity,  without  pedantry,  human, 
equitable,  patient,  kind.  She  believed  herself,  she 
said,  "  to  be  in  sympathy,  across  time  and  space,  with 
a  multitude  of  honest  wills  which  interrogate  their  con- 
science and  try  to  put  themselves  in  accord  with  it." 
This  chain  of  sympathy  will  extend  more  aud  more. 

It  is  silent,  that  eloquent  voice !  it  is  sunk,  that 
noble,  that  speaking  head !  we  sum  up,  as  we  best 
can,  what  she  said  to  us,  and  we  bid  her  adieu.  From 
many  hearts  in  many  lands  a  troop  of  tender  and 
gratefid  regrets  converge  towards  her  humble  church- 
yard in  Berry.  Let  them  be  joined  by  these  words  of 
sad  homage  from  one  of  a  nation  which  she  esteemed, 
and  which  knew  her  very  little  and  very  ill.  Her  guid- 
ing thought,  the  guiding  thought  which  she  did  her 
best  to  make  ours  too,  "the  sentiment  of  the  ideal 
life,  which  is  none  other  than  man's  normal  life  as  we 
shall  one  day  know  it,"  is  in  harmony  with  words  and 
promises  familiar  to  that  sacred  place  where  she  lies. 
JExspectat  resurrectionem  mortuorum,  et  vitam  venturi 
sceculi.^ 


/r' 


*1^ 


:«r 


WORDSWORTH  1 

I  REMEMBER  hearing  Lord  Macaulay  say,  after 
Wordsworth's  death,  when  subscriptions  were  being 
collected  to  found  a  memorial  of  him,  that  ten  years 
earlier  more  money  could  have  been  raised  in  Cam- 
bridge alone,  to  do  honor  to  Wordsworth,  than  was 
now  raised  all  through  the  country.  Lord  Macaulay 
had,  as  we  know,  his  own  heightened  and  telling  way 
of  putting  things,  and  we  must  always  make  allowance 
for  it.  But  probably  it  is  true  that  Wordsworth  has 
never,  either  before  or  since,  been  so  accepted  and 
popular,  so  established  in  possession  of  the  minds  of 
all  who  profess  to  care  for  jjoetry,  as  he  was  between 
the  years  1830  and  1840,  and  at  Cambridge.  From 
the  very  first,  no  doubt,  he  had  his  believers  and  wit- 
nesses. But  I  have  myself  heard  him  declare  that,  for 
he  knew  not  how  many  years,  his  poetry  had  never 
brought  him  in  enough  to  buy  his  shoe-strings.  The 
poetry-reading  public  was  very  slow  to  recognize  him, 
and  was  very  easily  drawn  away  from  him.  Scott 
effaced  him  with  this  public.  Byron  effaced  him. 

The  death  of  Byron  seemed,  however,  to  make  an 
opening  for  Wordswoi-th.  Scott,  who  had  for  some 
time  ceased  to  produce  poetry  himself,  and  stood  before 
the  public  as  a  great  novelist ;  Scott,  too  genuine  him- 
self not  to  feel  the  profound  genuineness  of  Wordsworth, 
and  with  an  instinctive  recognition  of  his  firm  hold  on 
nature  and  of  his  local  truth,  always  admired  him  sin- 
cerely, and  praised  him  generously.  The  influence  of 
Coleridge  upon  young  men  of  ability  was  then  power- 
ful, and  was  still  gathering  strength;  this  influence 


WORDSWORTH  219 

told  entirely  in  favor  of  Wordsworth's  poetry.  Cam- 
bridge was  a  place  where  Coleridge's  influence  had 
great  action,  and  where  Wordsworth's  poetry,  there- 
fore, flourished  especially.  But  even  amongst  the  gen- 
eral public  its  sale  grew  large,  the  eminence  of  its 
author  was  widely  recognized,  and  Rydal  Mount  ^  be- 
came an  object  of  pilgrimage.  I  remember  Wordsworth 
relating  how  one  of  the  pilgrims,  a  clergyman,  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  written  anything  besides  the  Guide 
to  the  Lakes.  Yes,  he  answered  modestly,  he  had  writ- 
ten verses.  Not  every  pilgrim  was  a  reader,  but  the 
vogue  was  established,  and  the  stream  of  pilgrims  came. 

Mr.  Tennyson's  decisive  appearance  dates  from 
1842.2  Q^^g  cannot  say  that  he  effaced  Wordsworth  as 
Scott  and  Byron  had  effaced  him.  The  poetry  of  Words- 
worth had  been  so  loug  before  the  public,  the  suffrage 
of  good  judges  was  so  steady  and  so  strong  in  its  favor, 
that  by  1842  the  verdict  of  posterity,  one  may  almost 
say,  had  been  already  pronounced,  and  Wordsworth's 
English  fame  was  secure.  But  the  vogue,  the  ear  and 
applause  of  the  great  body  of  poetry-readers,  never  quite 
thoroughly  perhaps  his,  he  gradually  lost  more  and 
more,  and  Mr.  Tennyson  gained  them.  Mr.  Tennyson 
drew  to  himself,  and  away  from  Wordsworth,  the  po- 
etry-reading j)ublic,  and  the  new  generations.  Even 
in  1850,  when  Wordsworth  died,  this  diminution  of 
popularity  was  visible,  and  occasioned  the  remark  of 
Lord  Macaulay  which  I  quoted  at  starting. 

The  diminution  has  continued.  The  influence  of 
Coleridge  has  waned,  and  Wordsworth's  poetry  can  no 
longer  draw  succor  from  this  ally.  The  poetry  has  not, 
however,  wanted  eulogists ;  and  it  may  be  said  to  have 
brought  its  eulogists  luck,  for  almost  every  one  who 
has  praised  Wordsworth's  poetry  has  praised  it  well. 
But  the  public  has  remained  cold,  or,  at  least,  undeter- 


220  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

mined.  Even  tlie  abundance  of  Mr.  Palgrave's  fine 
and  skilfully  chosen  specimens  of  Wordsworth,  in 
the  Golden  Treasury^  surprised  many  readers,  and 
gave  offense  to  not  a  few.  To  tenth-rate  critics  and 
compilers,  for  whom  any  violent  shock  to  the  public 
taste  would  be  a  temerity  not  to  be  risked,  it  is 
still  quite  permissible  to  speak  of  Wordsworth's 
poetry,  not  only  with  ignorance,  but  with  imperti- 
nence. On  the  Continent  he  is  almost  unknown. 

I  cannot  think,  then,  that  Wordsworth  has,  up  to 
this  time,  at  all  obtained  his  deserts.  "  Glory,"  said 
M.  Renan  the  other  day,  "glory  after  all  is  the  thing 
which  has  the  best  chance  of  not  being  altogether 
vanity."  Wordsworth  was  a  homely  man,  and  himself 
would  certainly  never  have  thought  of  talking  of  glory 
as  that  which,  after  all,  has  the  best  chance  of  not 
being  altogether  vanity.  Yet  we  may  well  allow  that 
few  things  are  less  vain  than  reed  glory.  Let  us  con- 
ceive of  the  whole  group  of  civilized  nations  as  being, 
for  intellectual  and  spiritual  purposes,  one  great  con- 
federation, bound  to  a  joint  action  and  working  to- 
wards a  common  result ;  a  confederation  whose  mem- 
bers have  a  due  knowledge  both  of  the  past,  out  of 
which  they  all  proceed,  and  of  one  another.  This  was 
the  ideal  of  Goethe,  and  it  is  an  ideal  which  will  im- 
pose itself  upon  the  thoughts  of  our  modern  societies 
more  and  more.  Then  to  be  recognized  by  the  verdict 
of  such  a  confederation  as  a  master,  or  even  as  a  seri- 
ously and  eminently  worthy  workman,  in  one's  own 
line  of  intellectual  or  spiritual  activity,  is  indeed  glory  ; 
a  glory  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  rate  too  highly. 
For  what  could  be  more  beneficent,  more  sahitary? 
The  world  is  forwarded  by  having  its  attention  fixed 
on  the  best  things  ;  and  here  is  a  tribunal,  free  from 
all  suspicion  of  national  and  provincial  partiality,  put- 


WORDSWORTH  221 

ting  a  stamp  on  the  best  things,  and  recommending 
them  for  general  honor  and  acceptance.  A  nation, 
again,  is  furthered  by  recognition  of  its  real  gifts  and 
successes  ;  it  is  encouraged  to  develop  them  further. 
And  here  is  an  honest  verdict,  telling  us  which  of  our 
supjjosed  successes  are  really,  in  the  judgment  of  the 
great  impartial  world,  and  not  in  our  private  judg- 
ment only,  successes,  and  which  are  not. 

It  is  so  easy  to  feel  pi-ide  and  satisfaction  in  one's 
own  things,  so  hard  to  make  sure  that  one  is  right  in 
feeling  it !  We  have  a  great  empire.  But  so  had  Nebu- 
chadnezzar. We  extol  the  "  unrivalled  happiness  "  of 
o]Lir  national  civilization.  But  then  comes  a  candid 
friend,^  and  remarks  that  our  upper  class  is  material- 
ized, our  middle  class  vulgarized,  and  our  lower  class 
brutalized.  We  are  proud  of  our  painting,  our  music. 
But  we  find  that  in  the  judgment  of  other  people  our 
painting  is  questionable,  and  our  music  non-existent. 
We  are  proud  of  onr  men  of  science.  And  here  it 
turns  out  that  the  world  is  with  us ;  we  find  that  in 
the  judgment  of  other  people,  too,  Newton  among  the 
dead,  and  Mr.  Darwin  among  the  living,  hold  as  high 
a  place  as  they  hold  in  our  national  opinion. 

Finally,  we  are  proud  of  our  poets  and  poetry.  Now 
poetry  is  nothing  less  than  the  most  perfect  speech  of 
man,  that  in  which  he  comes  nearest  to  being  able  to 
utter  the  truth.  It  is  no  small  thing,  therefore,  to  suc- 
ceed eminently  in  poetry.  And  so  much  is  required 
for  duly  estimating  success  here,  that  about  poetry  it 
is  perhaps  hardest  to  arrive  at  a  sure  general  verdict, 
and  takes  longest.  Meanwhile,  our  own  conviction  of 
the  superiority  of  our  national  poets  is  not  decisive,  is 
almost  certain  to  be  mingled,  as  we  see  constantly  in 
English  eulogy  of  Shakespeare,  with  much  of  provin- 
cial infatuation.  And  we  know  what  was  the  opinion 


222  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

current  amongst  our  neighbors  the  French  —  people 
of  taste,  acuteness,  and  quick  literary  tact  —  not  a 
hundred  years  ago,  about  our  great  poets.  The  old 
Biograpliie  UniverseUe^  notices  the  pretension  of  the 
English  to  a  place  for  their  poets  among  the  chief 
poets  of  the  world,  and  says  that  this  is  a  pretension 
which  to  no  one  but  an  Englishman  can  ever  seem 
admissible.  And  the  scornful,  disparaging  tilings  said 
by  foreigners  about  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and 
about  our  national  over-estimate  of  them,  have  been 
often  quoted,  and  will  be  in  everyone's  remembrance. 
A  great  change  has  taken  place,  and  Shakespeare  is 
now  generally  recognized,  even  in  France,  as  one  of 
the  greatest  of  poets.  Yes,  some  anti-Gallican  cynic 
will  say,  the  French  rank  him  with  Corneille  and  with 
Victor  Hugo  !  But  let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  quoting 
a  sentence  about  Shakespeare,  which  I  met  with  by 
accident  not  long  ago  in  the  Correspondant^  a  French 
review  which  not  a  dozen  English  people,  I  suppose, 
look  at.  The  writer  is  praising  Shakespeare's  prose. 
With  Shakespeare,  he  says,  "  prose  comes  in  whenever 
the  subject,  being  more  familiar,  is  unsuited  to  the 
majestic  English  iambic."  And  he  goes  on  :  "  Shake- 
speare is  the  king  of  poetic  rhythm  and  style,  as  well 
as  the  king  of  the  realm  of  thought :  along  with  his 
dazzling  prose,  Shakespeare  has  succeeded  in  giving  us 
the  most  varied,  the  most  harmonious  verse  which  has 
ever  sounded  upon  the  human  ear  since  the  verse  of 
the  Greeks."  M.  Henry  Cochin,^  the  writer  of  this 
sentence,  deserves  our  gratitude  for  it ;  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  praise  Shakespeare,  in  a  single  sentence, 
more  justly.  And  when  a  foreigner  and  a  Frenchman 
writes  thus  of  Shakespeare,  and  when  Goethe  says  of 
Milton,  in  whom  there  was  so  much  to  repel  Goethe 
rather  than  to  attract  him,  that  "  nothing  has  been 


WORDSWORTH  223 

ever  done  so  entirely  in  the  sense  of  the  Greeks  as 
Samson  Agonistes,''  and  that  "  Milton  is  in  very  truth 
a  poet  whom  we  must  treat  with  all  reverence,"  then 
we  understand  what  constitutes  a  European  recognition 
of  poets  and  poetry  as  contradistinguished  fi-om  a 
merely  national  recognition,  and  that  in  favor  both  of 
Milton  and  of  Shakespeare  the  judgment  of  the  high 
court  of  appeal  has  finally  gone. 

I  come  back  to  M.  Kenan's  praise  of  glory,  from 
which  I  started.  Yes,  real  glory  is  a  most  serious  thing, 
glory  authenticated  by  the  Amj)hictyonic  Court  i  of 
final  appeal,  definite  glory.  And  even  for  poets  and 
poetry,  long  and  difficult  as  may  be  the  process  of 
arriving  at  the  right  award,  the  right  award  comes 
at  last,  the  definitive  glory  rests  where  it  is  deserved. 
Every  establishment  of  such  a  real  glory  is  good  and 
wholesome  for  mankind  at  large,  good  and  wholesome 
for  the  nation  which  produced  the  poet  crowned  with 
it.  To  the  poet  himself  it  can  seldom  do  harm ; 
for  he,  poor  man,  is  in  his  grave,  probabl}^,  long  before 
his  glory  crowns  him. 

Wordsworth  has  been  in  his  grave  for  some  thirty 
years,  and  certainly  his  lovers  and  admirers  cannot 
flatter  themselves  that  this  great  and  steady  light  of 
glory  as  yet  shines  over  him.  He  is  not  fully  recog- 
nized at  home  ;  he  is  not  recognized  at  all  abroad. 
Yet  I  firmly  believe  that  the  poetical  performance  of 
Wordsworth  is,  after  that  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton, 
of  which  all  the  world  now  recognizes  the  worth,  im- 
doubtedly  the  most  considerable  in  our  language  from 
the  Elizabethan  age  to  the  present  time.  Chaucer  is 
anterior ;  and  on  other  grounds,  too,  he  cannot  well 
be  brought  into  the  comparison.  But  taking  the  roll 
of  our  chief  poetical  names,  besides  Shakespeare  and 
Milton,  from  the  age  of  Elizabeth  downwards,  and 


224  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

going  through  it,  —  Spenser,  Dryclen,  Pope,  Gray, 
Goklsmith,  Cowper,  Burns,  Coleridge,  Scott,  Campbell, 
Moore,  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats  (I  mention  those  only 
who  are  dead),  —  I  think  it  certain  that  Wordsworth's 
name  deserves  to  stand,  and  will  finally  stand,  above 
them  all.  Several  of  the  poets  named  have  gifts  and 
excellences  which  Wordsworth  has  not.  But  taking 
the  performance  of  each  as  a  whole,  I  say  that  Words- 
worth seems  to  me  to  have  left  a  body  of  poetical 
work  superior  in  power,  in  interest,  in  the  qualities 
which  give  enduring  freslmess,  to  that  which  any  one 
of  the  others  has  left. 

But  this  is  not  enough  to  say.  I  think  it  certain, 
further,  that  if  we  take  the  chief  poetical  names  of  the 
Continent  since  the  death  of  Moliere,  and,  omitting 
Goethe,  confront  the  remaining  names  with  that  of 
Wordsworth,  the  result  is  the  same.  Let  us  take  Klop- 
stock,!  Lessing,2  Schiller,  Uhland,'^  Riickert,*  and 
Heine  ^  for  Germany ;  Filicaja,^  Alfieri,""  Manzoni,^ 
and  Leopardi  ^  for  Italy ;  Racine,^^  Boileau,^^  Voltaire, 
Andre  Chenier,^^  Beranger,^"^  Lamartine,^*  Musset,^^ 
M.  Victor  Hugo  (he  has  been  so  long  celebrated  that 
although  he  still  lives  I  may  be  permitted  to  name 
him)  for  France.  Several  of  tliese,  again,  have  evi- 
dently gifts  and  excellences  to  which  Wordsworth  can 
make  no  pretension.  But  in  real  poetical  achievement 
it  seems  to  me  indubitable  that  to  Wordsworth,  here 
again,  belongs  the  palm.  It  seems  to  me  that  Words- 
worth has  left  behind  him  a  body  of  poetical  work 
which  wears,  and  will  wear,  better  on  the  whole  than 
the  performance  of  any  one  of  these  personages,  so  far 
more  brilliant  and  celebrated,  most  of  them,  than  the 
homely  poet  of  Rydal.  Wordsworth's  performance  in 
poetry  is  on  the  whole,  in  power,  in  interest,  in  the  quali- 
ties which  give  enduring  freshness,  superior  to  theirs. 


WORDSWORTH  225 

This  is  a  high  claim  to  make  for  Wordsworth.  But 
if  it  is  a  just  claim,  if  Wordsworth's  place  among  the 
poets  who  have  appeared  in  the  last  two  or  three  cen- 
turies is  after  Shakespeare,  Moliere,  Milton,  Goethe, 
indeed,  but  before  all  the  rest,  then  in  time  W^ords- 
worth  will  have  his  due.  We  shall  recognize  him  in  his 
place,  as  we  recognize  ShakesjDeare  and  Milton  ;  and 
not  only  we  ourselves  shall  recognize  him,  but  he  will 
be  recognized  by  Europe  also.  Meanwhile,  those  who 
recognize  him  already  may  do  well,  perhaps,  to  ask 
themselves  whether  there  are  not  in  the  case  of  Words- 
worth certain  special  obstacles  which  hinder  or  delay 
his  due  recognition  by  others,  and  whether  these  ob- 
stacles are  not  in  some  measure  removable. 

The  Excursion  and  the  Prelude^  his  poems  of  great- 
est bulk,  are  by  no  means  Wordsworth's  best  work. 
His  best  work  is  in  his  shorter  pieces,  and  many  in- 
deed are  there  of  these  which  are  of  first-rate  excel- 
lence. But  in  his  seven  volumes  the  pieces  of  high 
merit  are  mingled  with  a  mass  of  pieces  very  inferior 
to  them ;  so  inferior  to  them  that  it  seems  wonderful 
how  the  same  poet  should  have  produced  both,  Shake- 
speare frequently  has  lines  and  passages  in  a  strain 
quite  false,  and  which  are  entirely  unworthy  of  him. 
But  one  can  imagine  him  smiling  if  one  could  meet 
him  in  the  Elysian  Fields  and  tell  him  so ;  smiling  and 
replying  that  he  knew  it  perfectly  well  himself,  and 
what  did  it  matter  ?  But  with  Wordsworth  the  case  is 
different.  Work  altogether  inferior,  work  quite  unin- 
spired, flat  and  dull,  is  produced  by  him  with  evident 
unconsciousness  of  its  defects,  and  he  presents  it  to  us 
with  the  same  faith  and  seriousness  as  his  best  work. 
Now  a  drama  or  an  epic  fill  the  mind,  and  one  does 
not  look  beyond  them  ;  but  in  a  collection  of  short 
pieces  the  impression  made  by  one  piece  requires  to 


226  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

be  continued  and  sustained  by  the  piece  following.  In 
reading  Wordsworth  the  impression  made  by  one  of 
his  fine  pieces  is  too  often  dulled  and  spoiled  by  a  very 
inferior  piece  coming  after  it. 

Wordsworth  composed  verses  during  a  space  of  some 
sixty  years ;  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that 
within  one  single  decade  of  those  years,  between  1798 
and  1808,  almost  all  his  really  first-rate  work  was  pro- 
duced. A  mass  of  inferior  work  remains,  work  done 
before  and  after  this  golden  prime,  imbedding  the  first- 
rate  work  and  clogging  it,  obstructing  our  approach 
to  it,  chilling,  not  unfrequently,  the  high-wrought 
mood  with  which  we  leave  it.  To  be  recognized  far 
and  wide  as  a  great  poet,  to  be  possible  and  receivable 
as  a  classic,  Wordsworth  needs  to  be  relieved  of  a 
great  deal  of  the  poetical  baggage  which  now  encum- 
bers him.  To  administer  this  relief  is  indispensable, 
unless  he  is  to  continue  to  be  a  poet  for  the  few  only, 
—  a  poet  valued  far  below  his  real  worth  by  the  world. 

There  is  another  thing.  Wordsworth  classified  his 
poems  not  according  to  any  commonly  received  plan 
of  arrangement,  but  according  to  a  scheme  of  mental 
physiology.  He  has  poems  of  the  fancy,  poems  of  the 
imagination,  poems  of  sentiment  and  reflection,  and  so 
on.  His  categories  are  ingenious  but  far-fetched,  and 
the  result  of  his  employment  of  them  is  unsatisfactory. 
Poems  are  separated  one  from  another  which  possess 
a  kinship  of  subject  or  of  treatment  far  more  vital  and 
deep  than  the  supposed  unity  of  mental  origin,  which 
was  Wordsworth's  reason  for  joining  them  with  others. 

The  tact  of  the  Greeks  in  matters  of  this  kind  was 
infallible.  We  may  rely  upon  it  that  we  shall  not  im- 
prove upon  the  classification  adopted  by  the  Greeks 
for  kinds  of  poetry;  that  their  categories  of  epic, 
dramatic,  lyric,  and  so  forth,  have   a  natural    pro- 


WORDSWORTH  227 

priety,  and  should  be  adhered  to.  It  may  sometimes 
seem  doubtful  to  which  of  two  categories  a  poem  be- 
longs ;  whether  this  or  that  poem  is  to  be  called,  for 
instance,  narrative  or  lyric,  lyric  or  elegiac.  But  there 
is  to  be  found  in  every  good  poem  a  strain,  a  pre- 
dominant note,  which  determines  the  poem  as  belong- 
ing to  one  of  these  kinds  rather  than  the  other ;  and 
here  is  the  best  proof  of  the  value  of  the  classification, 
and  of  the  advantage  of  adhering  to  it.  Wordsworth's 
poems  will  never  produce  their  due  effect  until  they 
are  freed  from  their  present  artificial  arrangement, 
and  grouped  more  naturally. 

Disengaged  from  the  quantity  of  inferior  work 
which  now  obscures  them,  the  best  poems  of  Words- 
worth, I  hear  many  people  say,  would  indeed  stand 
out  in  great  beauty,  but  they  would  prove  to  be  very 
few  in  number,  scarcely  more  than  a  half  a  dozen.  I 
maintain,  on  the  other  hand,  that  what  strikes  me 
with  admiration,  what  establishes  in  my  opinion  Words- 
worth's superiority,  is  the  great  and  ample  body  of 
powerful  work  which  remains  to  him,  even  after  all 
his  inferior  work  has  been  cleared  away.  He  gives  us 
so  much  to  rest  upon,  so  much  which  communicates 
his  spirit  and  engages  ours  ! 

This  is  of  very  great  importance.  If  it  were  a  com- 
parison of  single  pieces,  or  of  three  or  four  pieces,  by 
each  poet,  I  do  not  say  that  Wordsworth  would  stand 
decisively  above  Gray,  or  Burns,  or  Coleridge,  or  Keats, 
or  Manzoni,  or  Heine.  It  is  in  his  ampler  body  of  power- 
ful work  that  I  find  his  superiority.  His  good  work 
itself,  his  work  which  counts,  is  not  all  of  it,  of  course, 
of  equal  value.  Some  kinds  of  poetry  are  in  themselves 
lower  kinds  than  others.  The  ballad  kind  is  a  lower 
kind  ;  the  didactic  kind,  still  more,  is  a  lower  kind. 
Poetry  of  this  latter  sort  counts,  too,  sometimes,  by 


228  IVIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

its  biographical  interest  partly,  not  by  its  poetical  in- 
terest pure  and  simple  ;  but  then  this  can  only  be 
when  the  poet  producing  it  has  the  power  and  impor- 
tance of  Wordsworth,  a  power  and  importance  which 
he  assuredly  did  not  establish  by  such  didactic  poetry 
alone.  Altogether,  it  is,  I  say,  by  the  great  body  of 
powerful  and  significant  work  which  remains  to  him, 
after  every  reduction  and  deduction  has  been  made, 
that  Wordsworth's  superiority  is  proved. 

To  exhibit  this  body  of  Wordsworth's  best  work, 
to  clear  away  obstructions  from  around  it,  and  to  let 
it  speak  for  itself,  is  what  every  lover  of  Wordsworth 
should  desire.  Until  this  has  been  done,  Wordsworth, 
whom  we,  to  whom  he  is  dear,  all  of  us  know  and  feel 
to  be  so  great  a  poet,  has  not  had  a  fair  chance  before 
the  world.  When  once  it  has  been  done,  he  will  make 
his  way  best,  not  by  our  advocacy  of  him,  but  by  his 
own  worth  and  power.  We  may  safely  leave  him  to 
make  his  way  thus,  we  who  believe  that  a  superior 
worth  and  power  in  poetry  finds  in  mankind  a  sense 
responsive  to  it  and  disposed  at  last  to  recognize  it. 
Yet  at  the  outset,  before  he  has  been  duly  known  and 
recognized,  we  may  do  Wordsworth  a  service,  per- 
haps, by  indicating  in  what  his  superior  power  and 
worth  will  be  found  to  consist,  and  in  what  it  will 

^^^•'^'.„,.     ^,vi:>^'-        r-'V^         l,,,,:\..^-  -.iM^  ■■^'  >"^ 

Long  ago,  in  speaking  of  Homer,  I  said  that  the 
noble  and  profound  application  of  ideas  to  life  is  the 
most  essential  part  of  poetic  greatness.  I  said  that 
a  great  poet  receives  his  distinctive  character  of  supe- 
riority from  his  application,  luider  the  conditions  im- 
mutably fixed  by  the  laws  of  poetic  beaut}^  and  poetic 
truth,  from  his  application,  I  say,  to  his  subject,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  of  the  ideas 

"  On  man,  on  natnre,  and  on  human  life,"  ^     ' 

•  ■     .  >    .O  r 


WORDSWORTH  229 

which  he  has  acquired  for  himself.  The  line  quoted  is 
Wordsworth's  own  ;  and  his  superiority  arises  from 
his  powerful  use,  in  his  best  pieces,  his  powerful  ap- 
plication to  his  subject,  of  ideas  "  on  man,  on  nature, 
and  on  human  life." 

Voltaire,  with  his  signal  acuteness,  most  truly  re- 
marked that  "  no  nation  has  treated  in  poetry  moral 
ideas  with  more  energy  and  depth  than  the  English 
nation."  And  he  adds  ;  "  There,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the 
great  merit  of  the  English  poets."  Voltaire  does  not 
mean,  by  "  treating  in  poetry  moral  ideas,"  the  com- 
posing moral  and  didactic^ poems  ;  —  that  brings  us 
but  a  very  little  way  in  poetry.  He  means  just  the 
same  thing  as  was  meant  when  I  spoke  above  "  of  the 
noble  and  profound  application  of  ideas  to  life  "  ;  and 
he  means  the  application  of  these  ideas  under  the  con- 
ditions fixed  for  us  by  the  laws  of  poetic  beauty  and 
poetic  ti'uth.  If  it  is  said  that  to  call  these  ideas  moral 
ideas  is  to  introduce  a  strong  and  injurious  limitation, 
I  answer  that  it  is  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  because 
moral  ideas  are  really  so  main  a  part  of  human  life. 
The  question,  how  to  live,  is  itself  a  moral  idea  ;  and 
it  is  the  question  which  most  interests  every  man,  and 
with  which,  in  some  way  or  other,  he  is  perpetually 
occupied.  A  large  sense  is  of  course  to  be  given  to  the 
term  moral.  AVhatever  bears  upon  the  question, "  how 
to  live,"  comes  under  it.  •      _     Z. 

"  Nor  love  thy  life,  nor  liate  ;  but,  what  thou  liv'st, 
Live  well  ;  how  long  or  sliort,  permit  to  heaven."  ^ 

In  those  fine  lines  Milton  utters,  as  every  one  at  once 

perceives,  a  moral  idea.  Yes,  but  so  too,  when  Keats 

consoles  the   forward-bending  lover  on  the    Grecian 

Urn,  the  lover  arrested  and  presented  in  immortal 

relief  by  the  sculptor's  hand  before  he  can  kiss,  with 

the  line, 


% 


230  ^L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

"  Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  —  " 
he  utters  a  moral  idea.  When  Shakespeare  says,  that 

*'  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep,"  ^  -' — 7^-  ' 

he  utters  a  moral  idea. 

Voltaire  was  ri^ht  in  thinkin(j  that  the  enero'etic 
and  profound  treatment  of  moral  ideas,  in  this  large 
sense,  is  what  distinguishes  the  English  poetry.  He 
sincerely  meant  praise,  not  dispraise  or  hint  of  limi- 
tation ;  and  they  err  who  suppose  that  poetic  limita- 
tion is  a  necessary  consequence  of  the  fact,  the  fact 
A  beins:  ^ranted  as  Voltaire  states  it.  If  what  distin- 
j^  guishes  the  greatest  poets  is  their  powerful  and  pro- 
found application  of  ideas  to  life,  which  surely  no  good 
critic  will  deny,  then  to  prefix  to  the  term  ideas  here 
the  term  moral  makes  hardly  any  difference,  because 
human  life  itself  is   in   so   preponderating  a   decree 

morah  -^    -    ,    ••     -'^  *- V^-^:?  .'••^"^- ^  ^K 

It  is  important,  therefore,'  to  hold  fast  to  this : 
that  poetry  is  at  bottom  a  criticism  of  life ;  ^  that  the 
greatness  of  a  poet  lies  in  his  powerful  and  beautiful 
application  of  ideas  to  life,  —  to  the  question  :  How  to 
live.  Morals  are  often  treated  in  a  narrow  and  false 
fashion  :  they  are  bound  up  with  systems  of  thought 
and  belief  which  have  had  their  day  ;  they  are  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  pedants  and  professional  dealers ; 
they  grow  tiresome  to  some  of  us.  We  find  attraction, 
at  times,  even  in  a  poetry  of  revolt  against  them  ;  in 
a  poetry  which  might  take  for  its  motto  Omar  Khay- 
yam's words  :  •'  Let  us  make  up  in  the  tavern  for  the 
time  which  we  have  wasted  in  the  mosque."  Or  we 
find  attractions  in  a  poetry  indifferent  to  them  ;  in  a 
poetry  where  the  contents  may  be  what  they  will,  but 
where  the  form  is  studied  and  exquisite.  We  delude 


WORDSWORTH  231 

ourselves  in  either  case ;  and  the  best  cure  for  onr 
delusion  is  to  let  our  minds  rest  upon  that  great  and 
inexhaustible  word  life,  until  we  learn  to  enter  into 
its  meaning.  A  poetry  of  revolt  against  moral  ideas  is 
a  poetry  of  revolt  against  life  ;  a  poetry  of  indifference 
towards  moral  ideas  is  a  poetry  of  indifference  towards 
life. 

Epictetus  had  a  happy  figure  for  things  like  the 
play  of  the  senses,  or  literary  form  and  finish,  or  argu- 
mentative ingenuity,  in  comparison  with  "  the  best  and 
master  thing"  for  us,  as  he  called  it,  the  concern,  how 
to  live.  Some  people  were  afraid  of  them,  he  said,  or 
they  disliked  and  undervalued  them.  Such  people 
were  wrong ;  they  were  unthankful  or  cowardly.  But 
the  things  might  also  be  over-prized,  and  treated  as 
final  when  they  are  not.  They  bear  to  life  the  relation 
which  inns  bear  to  home.  "  As  if  a  man,  journeying 
home,  and  finding  a  nice  inn  on  the  road,  and  liking  it, 
were  to  stay  forever  at  thejnn  !  Man,  thou  hast  for- 
gotten thine  object ;  thy  journey  was  not  to  this,  but 
through  this.  '  But  this  inn  is  taking.'  And  how  many 
other  inns,  too,  are  taking,  and  how  many  fields  and 
meadows  !  but  as  places  of  passage  merely.  You  have 
an  object,  which  is  this :  to  get  home,  to  do  your  duty 
to  your  family,  friends,  and  fellow-countrymen,  to  at- 
tain inward  freedom,  serenity,  happiness,  contentment. 
Style  takes  your  fancy,  arguing  takes  your  fancy,  and 
you  forget  your  home  and  want  to  make  your  abode 
with  them  and  to  stay  with  them,  on  the  plea  that  they 
are  taking.  Who  denies  that  they  are  taking?  but  as 
places  of  passage,  as  inns.  And  when  1  say  this,  you 
suppose  me  to  be  attacking  the  care  for  style,  the  care 
for  argument.  I  am  not ;  I  attack  the  resting  in  them, 
the  not  looking  to  the  end  which  is  beyond  them."  ^ 

Now,  when  we  come  across  a  poet  like  Theophile  Gau- 


On— •{/ 


232  IVIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

tier,i  we  have  a  poet  who  has  taken  up  his  abode  at  an 
inn,  and  never  got  farther.  There  may  be  inducements 
to  this  or  that  one  of  us,  at  this  or  that  moment,  to 
find  delight  in  him,  to  cleave  to  him  ;  but  after  all,  we 
do  not  change  the  truth  about  him,  —  we  only  stay 
ourselves  in  his  inn  along  with  him.  And  when  we 
come  across  a  poet  like  Wordsworth,  who  sings 

"  Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love  and  hope, 
And  melancholy  fear  subdued  by  faith. 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress. 
Of  moral  strength  and  intellectual  power,      O     /; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  —  "^  isLC cx.**"*^ 

then  we  have  a  poet  intent  on  "the  best  and  master 
thing,"  and  who  prosecutes  his  journey  home.  We  say, 
for  brevity's  sake,  that  he  deals  with  life^  because  he 
deals  with  that  in  which  life  really  consists.  This  is 
what  Voltaire  means  to  praise  in  the  English  poets,  — 
this  dealing  with  what  is  really  life.  But  always  it  is 
the  mark  of  the  greatest  poets  that  they  deal  with  it ; 
and  to  say  that  the  English  poets  are  remarkable  for 
dealing  with  it,  is  only  another  way  of  saying,  what  is 
true,  that  in  poetry  the  English  genius  has  especially 
shown  its  power. 

Wordsworth  deals  with  it,  and  his  greatness  lies  in 
his  dealing  with  it  so  powerfully.  I  have  named  a  num- 
ber of  celebrated  poets  above  all  of  whom  he,  in  my 
opinion,  deserves  to  be  placed.  He  is  to  be  placed 
above  poets  like  Voltaire,  Dryden,  Pope,  Lessing, 
Schiller,  because  these  famous  personages,  with  a 
thousand  gifts  and  merits,  never,  or  scarcely  ever,  at- 
tain the  distinctive  accent  and  utterance  of  the  high 
and  genuine  poets —  ljuu~i-^ 

"  Quique  pii  vates  et  Phcebo  digna  locuti,"  ^ 

at  all.  Burns,  Keats,  Heine,  not  to  speak  of  others  in 
our  list,  have  this  accent ;  —  who  can  doubt  it  ?  And 
V  t    ''  t   i-^vw  av'mvv     i>t>efi    iL--^    x>|>vfe*'  wvWKu 


WORDSWORTH  233 

at  the  same  time  they  have  treasures  of  humor,  felicity, 
passion,  for  which  in  Wordsworth  we  shall  look  in 
vain.  Where,  then,  is  Wordsworth's  superiority?  It 
is  here ;  he  deals  with  more  of  life  than  they  do ;  he 
deals  with  Zi/e,as  a  whole,  more  powerfully. 

No  Wordsworthian  will  doubt  this.  Nay,  the  fer- 
vent Wordsworthian  will  add,  as  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  i 
does,  that  Wordsworth's  poetry  is  precious  because  his 
philosophy  is  sound  ;  that  his  "  ethical  system  is  as  dis- 
tinctive and  capable  of  exposition  as  Bishop  Butler's  "; 
that  his  poetry  is  informed  by  ideas  which  "  fall  spon- 
taneously into  a  scientific  system  of  thought."  But  we 
must  be  on  our  guard  against  the  Wordsworthians,  if 
we  want  to  secure  for  Wordsworth  his  due  rank  as  a 
poet.  The  Wordsworthians  are  apt  to  praise  him  for 
the  wrong  things,  and  to  lay  far  too  much  stress  upon 
what  they  call  his  philosophy.  His  poetry  is  the 
reality,  his  philosophy  —  so  far,  at  least,  as  it  may  put 
on  the  form  and  habit  of  "a  scientific  system  of 
thought,"  and  the  more  that  it  puts  them  on — is  the 
illusion.  Perhaps  we  shall  one  day  learn  to  make  this 
proposition  general,  and  to  say:  Poetry  is  the  reality, 
philosophy  the  illusion.  But  in  W^ordsworth's  case,  at 
any  rate,  we  cannot  do  him  justice  until  we  dismiss  his 
formal  philosophy. 

The  Excursion  abounds  with  philosophy  and  there- 
fore the  Excursion  is  to  the  Wordsworthian  what  it 
never  can  be  to  the  disinterested  lover  of  poetry,  —  a 
satisfactory  work.  "  Duty  exists,"  says  Wordsworth,  in 
the  Excursion;  and  then  he  proceeds  thus  — 

"...  Immutably  survive, 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms, 
Which  an  abstract  Intelligence  supplies, 
Whose  kingdom  is,  where  time  and  space  are  not."  ^ 

And  the  Wordsworthian  is  delighted,  and  thinks  that 


234  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

here  is  a  sweet  union  of  philosophy  and  poetry.  But 
the  disinterested  lover  of  poetry  will  feel  that  the  lines 
carry  us  really  not  a  step  farther  than  the  proposition 
which  they  would  interpret ;  that  they  are  a  tissue  of 
elevated  but  abstract  verbiage,  alien  to  the  very  nature 
of  poetry. 

Or  let  us  come  direct  to  the  centre  of  Wordsworth's 
philosophy,  as  "  an  ethical  system,  as  distinctive  and 
capable  of  systematical  exposition  as  Bishop  But- 
ler's"— 

"...  One  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists,  one  only  ;  —  an  assured  belief 
That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 
Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a  Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power  ; 
Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good."  ^ 

That  is  doctrine  such  as  we  hear  in  church  too,  relig- 
ious and  philosophic  doctrine ;  and  the  attached  Words- 
worthian  loves  passages  of  such  doctrine,  and  brings 
them  forward  in  proof  of  his  poet's  excellence.  But 
however  true  the  doctrine  may  be,  it  has,  as  here  pre- 
sented, none  of  the  characters  of  poetic  truth,  the  kind 
of  truth  which  we  require  from  a  poet,  and  in  which 
Wordsworth  is  really  strong. 

Even  the  "  intimations  "  of  the  famous  Ode,^  those 
corner-stones  of  the  supposed  philosophic  system  of 
Wordsworth,  —  the  idea  of  tlie  high  instincts  and 
affections  coming  out  in  childhood,  testifying  of  a 
divine  home  recently  left,  and  fading  away  as  our  life 
proceeds,  —  this  idea,  of  undeniable  beauty  as  a  play 
of  fancy,  has  itself  not  the  character  of  poetic  truth  of 
the  best  kind ;  it  has  no  real  solidity.  The  instinct  of 
delight  in  Nature  and  her  beauty  had  no  doubt  extraor- 
dinary strength  in   Wordsworth  himself  as  a  child. 


WORDSWORTH  235 

But  to  say  that  universally  this  instinct  is  mighty  in 
childhood,  and  tends  to  die  away  afterwards,  is  to  say 
what  is  extremely  doubtful.  In  many  people,  perhaps 
with  the  majority  of  educated  persons,  the  love  of  na- 
ture is  nearly  imperceptible  at  ten  years  old,  but  strong 
and  operative  at  thirty.  In  general  we  may  say  of  these 
high  instincts  of  early  childhood,  the  base  of  the  alleged 
systematic  philosophy  of  Wordsworth,  what  Thucyd- 
ides  says  of  the  early  achievements  of  the  Greek 
race:  "It  is  impossible  to  speak  with  certainty  of 
what  is  so  remote ;  but  from  all  that  we  can  really 
investigate,  I  should  say  that  they  were  no  very  great 
things." 

Finally,  the  "  scientific  system  of  thought "  in 
Wordsworth  gives  us  at  least  such  poetry  as  this, 
which  the  devout  Wordsworthian  accepts  — 

"  O  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time 
When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth 
And  best  protection,  this  Imperial  Realm, 
While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach 
Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey  ; 
Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure, 
For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains, 
The  rudiments  of  letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth."  ^ 

Wordsworth  calls  Voltaire  dull,  and  surely  the  pro- 
duction of  these  un-Voltairian  lines  must  have  been 
imposed  on  him  as  a  judgment !  One  can  hear  them 
being  quoted  at  a  Social  Science  Congress;  one  can 
call  up  the  whole  scene.  A  great  room  in  one  of  our 
dismal  provincial  towns ;  dusty  air  and  jaded  after- 
noon daylight ;  benches  full  of  men  with  bald  heads 
and  women  in  spectacles ;  an  orator  lifting  up  his  face 
from  a  manuscript  written  within  and  without  to 
declaim  these  lines  of  Wordsworth  ;  and  in  the  soul 


236  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  any  poor  child  of  nature  who  may  have  wandered 
in  thither,  an  unutterable  sense  of  lamentation,  and 
mourning,  and  woe  ! 

"  But  turn  we,"  as  Wordsworth  says,  "  from  these 
bold,  bad  men,"  the  haunters  of  Social  Science  Con- 
gresses. And  let  us  be  on  our  guard,  too,  against  the 
exhibitors  and  extollers  of  a  "  scientific  system  of 
thought"  in  Wordsworth's  poetry.  Tlie  poetry  will 
never  be  seen  aright  while  they  thus  exhibit  it.  The 
cause  of  its  greatness  is  simple,  and  may  be  told  quite 
simply.  AVordsworth's  poetry  is  great  because  of  the 
extraordinary  power  with  which  Wordsworth  feels  the 
joy  offered  to  us  in  nature,  the  joy  offered  to  us  in 
the  simple  primary  affections  and  duties ;  and  because 
of  the  extraordinary  power  with  which,  in  case  after 
case,  he  shows  us  this  joy,  and  renders  it  so  as  to 
make  us  share  it. 

The  source  of  joy  from  which  he  thus  draws  is  the 
truest  and  most  unfailing  source  of  joy  accessible  to 
man.  It  is  also  accessible  universally.  Wordsworth 
brings  us  word,  therefore,  according  to  his  own  strong 
and  characteristic  line,  he  brings  us  word 

"  Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread." ' 

Here  is  an  immense  advantage  for  a  poet.  Words- 
worth tells  of  what  all  seek,  and  tells  of  it  at  its  truest 
and  best  source,  and  yet  a  source  where  all  may  go 
and  draw  for  it. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  everything 
is  precious  which  Wordsworth,  standing  even  at  this 
perennial  and  beautiful  source,  may  give  us.  Words- 
worthians  are  apt  to  talk  as  if  it  must  be.  They  will 
speak  with  the  same  reverence  of  The  Sailor  s  Mother, 
for  example,  as  of  Lricy  Gray.  They  do  their  master 
harm  by  such  lack  of  discrimination.  Lucy  Gray  is 


WORDSWORTH  237 

a  beautiful  success  ;  The  Sailor  s  Mother  is  a  failure. 
To  give  aright  what  he  wishes  to  give,  to  interpret 
and  render  successfully,  is  not  always  within  W^ords- 
worth's  own  command.  It  is  within  no  poet's  com- 
mand ;  here  is  the  part  of  the  Muse,  the  inspiration, 
the  God,  the  "  not  ourselves."  ^  In  Wordsworth's  case, 
the  accident,  for  so  it  may  almost  be  called,  of  in- 
spiration, is  of  peculiar  importance.  No  poet,  perhaps, 
is  so  evidently  filled  with  a  new  and  sacred  energy 
when  the  inspiration  is  upon  him  ;  no  poet,  when  it 
fails  him,  is  so  left  "  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave."  I 
remember  hearing  him  say  that  "  Goethe's  poetry  was 
not  inevitable  enough."  The  remark  is  striking  and 
true ;  no  line  in  Goethe,  as  Goethe  said  himself,  but 
its  maker  knew  well  how  it  came  there.  Wordsworth 
is  right,  Goethe's  poetry  is  not  inevitable ;  not  inevit- 
able enough.  But  W^ordsworth's  poetry,  when  he  is  at 
his  best,  is  inevitable,  as  inevitable  as  Nature  herself. 
It  might  seem  that  Nature  not  o\\\y  gave  him  the 
matter  for  his  poem,  but  wrote  his  poem  for  him.  He 
has  no  style.  He  was  too  conversant  with  Milton  not 
to  catch  at  times  his  master's  manner,  and  he  has  fine 
Miltonic  lines;  but  he  has  no  assured  poetic  style  of 
his  own,  like  Milton.  When  he  seeks  to  have  a  style 
he  falls  into  ponderosity  and  pomposity.  In  the  Excur- 
sion we  have  his  style,  as  an  artistic  product  of  his 
own  creation ;  and  although  Jeffrey  completely  failed  to 
recognize  Wordsworth's  real  greatness,  he  was  yet  not 
wrong  in  saying  of  the  Excursion^  as  a  work  of  poetic 
style:  "This  will  never  do."^  And  yet  magical  as  is 
that  power,  which  Wordsworth  has  not,  of  assured 
and  possessed  poetic  style,  he  has  something  which  is 
an  equivalent  for  it. 

Every  one  who  has  any  sense  for  these  things  feels 
the  subtle  turn,  the  heightening,  which  is  given  to  a 


238  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

poet's  verse  by  his  genius  for  style.  We  can  feel  it  in 

the 

"After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well"  —  ^ 

of  Shakespeare ;  in  the 

"...  thougli  fall'n  on  evil  days, 
On  evil  days  though  fall'n,  and  evil  tongues  "  —  ^ 

of  Milton.  It  is  the  incomparable  charm  of  Milton's 
power  of  poetic  style  which  gives  such  worth  to  Par- 
adise Regained,  and  makes  a  great  poem  of  a  work 
in  which  Milton's  imagination  does  not  soar  high. 
Wordsworth  has  in  constant  possession,  and  at  com- 
mand, no  style  of  this  kind  ;  but  he  had  too  poetic  a 
nature,  and  had  read  the  great  poets  too  weU,  not  to 
catch,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  something  of  it 
occasionally.  We  find  it  not  only  in  his  Miltonic  lines  ; 
we  find  it  in  such  a  phrase  as  this,  where  the  manner 
is  his  own,  not  Milton's  — 

"  the  fierce  confederate  storm 
Of  sorrow  barricadoed  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  cities;  "  ^ 

although  even  here,  perhaps,  the  power  of  style  which 
is  undeniable,  is  more  properly  that  of  eloquent  prose 
than  the  subtle  heightening  and  change  wrought  by 
genuine  jjoetic  style.  It  is  style,  again,  and  the  eleva- 
tion given  by  style,  which  chiefly  makes  the  effective- 
ness of  Laodameia.  Still  the  right  sort  of  verse  to 
choose  from  Wordsworth,  if  we  are  to  seize  his  true 
and  most  characteristic  form  of  expression,  is  a  line 
like  this  from  Michael  — 

"  And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone." 

There  is  nothing  subtle  in  it,  no  heightening,  no  study 
of  poetic  style,  strictly  so  called,  at  all ;  yet  it  is  ex- 
pression of  the  highest  and  most  truly  expressive 
kind. 


WORDSWORTH  239 

Wordsworth  owed  much  to  Burns,  and  a  style  of 
perfect  plamness,  relyhig  for  effect  solely  on  the 
weight  and  force  of  that  which  with  entire  fidelity  it 
utters,  Burns  could  show  him. 

"  The  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low 

And  stain'd  his  name."  ^ 

Every  one  will  be  conscious  of  a  likeness  here  to 
Wordsworth  ;  and  if  Wordsworth  did  great  things 
with  this  nobly  plain  manner,  we  must  remember, 
what  indeed  he  himself  would  always  have  been  for- 
ward to  acknowledge,  that  Burns  used  it  before  him. 

Still  Wordsworth's  use  of  it  has  something  unique 
and  unmatchable.  Nature  herself  seems,  I  say,  to  take 
the  pen  out  of  his  hand,  and  to  write  for  him  with 
^er  own  bare,  sheer,  penetrating  power.  This  arises 
from  two  causes  ;  from  the  profound  sincereness  with 
which  Wordsworth  feels  his  subject,  and  also  from  the 
profoundly  sincere  and  natural  character  of  his  sub- 
ject itself.  He  can  and  will  treat  such  a  subject  with 
nothing  but  the  most  plain,  first-hand,  almost  austere 
naturalness.  His  expression  may  often  be  called  bald, 
as,  for  instance,  in  the  poem  of  Resolution  and  Inde- 
pendence ;  but  it  is  bald  as  the  bare  mountain  tops 
are  bald,  with  a  baldness  which  is  full  of  grandeur. 

Wherever  we  meet  with  the  successfid  balance,  in 
Wordsworth,  of  profound  truth  of  subject  with  pro- 
found truth  of  execution,  he  is  unique.  His  best  poems 
are  those  which  most  perfectly  exhibit  this  balance.  I 
have  a  warm  admiration  for  Laodameia  and  for  the 
great  Ode  ;  but  if  I  am  to  tell  the  very  truth,  I  find 
Laodameia  not  wholly  free  from  something  artificial, 


240  M.VTTHEW  ARNOLD 

and  the  great  Ode  not  wholly  free  from  something 
declamatory.  If  1  had  to  pick  out  poems  of  a  kind 
most  perfectly  to  show  Wordsworth's  unique  power,  I 
should  rather  choose  poems  such  as  Michael,  The 
Fountain,  The  Highland  Reaper}  And  poems  with 
the  peculiar  and  unique  beauty  which  distinguishes 
these,  Wordsworth  produced  in  considerable  number  ; 
besides  very  many  other  poems  of  which  the  worth, 
althoug-h  not  so  rare  as  the  worth  of  these,  is  still 
exceedingly  high. 

On  the  whole,  then,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning,  not 
only  is  Wordsworth  eminent  by  reason  of  the  good- 
ness of  his  best  work,  but  he  is  eminent  also  by  reason 
of  the  great  body  of  good  work  which  he  has  left  to 
us.  With  the  ancients  I  will  not  compare  him.  In 
many  respects  the  ancients  are  far  above  us,  and  yet 
there  is  something  that  we  demand  which  they  can 
never  give.  Leaving  the  ancients,  let  us  come  to  the 
poets  and  poetry  of  Christendom.  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
Moliere,  Milton,  Goethe,  are  altogether  larger  and 
more  splendid  luminaries  in  the  poetical  heaven  than 
AYordsworth.  But  I  know  not  where  else,  among  the 
moderns,  we  are  to  find  his  superiors. 

To  disengage  the  poems  which  show  his  power,  and 
to  present  them  to  the  English-speaking  public  and  to 
the  world,  is  the  object  of  this  volume.  I  by  no  means 
say  that  it  contains  all  which  in  Wordsworth's  poems 
is  interesting.  Except  in  the  case  of  3fargaret,  a 
story  composed  separately  from  the  rest  of  the  Excur- 
sion, and  which  belongs  to  a  different  part  of  England, 
I  have  not  ventured  on  detaching  portions  of  poems, 
or  on  gi\ing  any  piece  other^Nase  than  as  Wordsworth 
himself  gave  it.  But  under  the  conditions  imposed  by 
this  reserve,  the  volume  contains,  I  think,  everything, 
or  nearly  everything,  which  may  best  serve  him  with 


WORDSWORTH  241 

the  majority  of  lovers  of  poetry,  nothing  which  may 
disserve  him. 

I  have  spoken  lightly  of  Wordsworthians  ;  and  if 
we  are  to  get  Wordsworth  recognized  by  the  public 
and  by  the  world,  we  must  recommend  him  not  in  the 
spirit  of  a  clique,  but  in  the  spirit  of  disinterested 
lovers  of  poetry.  But  I  am  a  Wordsworthian  myself. 
I  can  read  with  pleasure  and  edification  Peter  Bell^ 
and  the  whole  series  of  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets^  and 
the  address  to  Mr.  Wilkinson's  spade,  and  even  the 
Thanksgiving  Ode  ;  —  everything  of  Wordsworth,  I 
think,  except  Vaudracour  and  Julia.  It  is  not  for 
nothing  that  one  has  been  brought  up  in  the  venera- 
tion of  a  man  so  truly  worthy  of  homage  ;  that  one 
has  seen  him  and  heard  him,  lived  in  his  neighborhood, 
and  been  familiar  with  his  country.  No  Wordsworth- 
ian has  a  tenderer  affection  for  this  pure  and  sage 
master  than  I,  or  is  less  really  offended  by  his  defects. 
But  Wordsworth  is  something  more  than  the  pure 
and  sage  master  of  a  small  band  of  devoted  followers, 
and  we  ought  not  to  rest  satisfied  until  he  is  seen  to 
be  what  he  is.  He  is  one  of  the  very  chief  glories  of 
English  Poetry  ;  and  by  nothing  is  England  so  glori- 
ous as  by  her  poetry.  Let  us  lay  aside  every  weight 
which  hinders  our  getting  him  recognized  as  this,  and 
let  our  one  study  be  to  bring  to  pass,  as  widely  as 
possible  and  as  truly  as  possible,  his  own  word  con- 
cerning his  poems  :  "  They  will  coJiperate  with  the  be- 
nign tendencies  in  human  nature  and  society,  and  will, 
in  their  degree,  be  efficacious  in  making  men  wiser, 
better,  and  happier." 


a. 


III.  SOCIAL   AND   POLITICAL   STUDIES 
SWEETNESS   AND   LIGHT  i 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive  curios- 
ity ;  sometimes,  indeed,  they  make  its  motive  mere  ex- 
clusiveuess  and  vanity.  The  culture  which  is  supposed 
to  plume  itself  on  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin 
is  a  culture  which  is  begotten  by  nothing  so  intellect- 
ual as  curiosity  ;  it  is  valued  either  out  of  sheer  vanity 
and  ignorance  or  else  as  an  engine  of  social  and  class 
distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like  a  badge  or  title, 
from  other  people  who  have  not  got  it.  No  serious 
man  would  call  this  culture,  or  attach  any  value  to  it, 
as  culture,  at  all.  To  find  the  real  ground  for  the  very 
differing  estimate  which  serious  people  will  set  upon 
culture,  we  must  find  some  motive  for  culture  in  the 
terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real  ambiguity ;  and  such  a 
motive  the  word  cuinosity  gives  us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we  English  do 
not,  like  the  foreigners,  use  this  word  in  a  good  sense 
as  well  as  in  a  bad  sense.  With  us  the  word  is  always 
lased  in  a  somewhat  disapproving  sense.  A  liberal  and 
intelligent  eagerness  about  the  things  of  the  mind  may 
be  meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks  of  curiosity, 
but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys  a  certain  notion 
of  frivolous  and  unedif3-ing  activity.  In  the  Quarterly 
Hevieio,  some  little  time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the 
celebrated  French  critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve,^  and  a  very 
inadequate  estimate  it  in  my  judgment  was.  And  its 
inadequacy  consisted  chiefly  in  this :  that  in  our  Eng- 
lish way  it  left  out  of  sight  the  double  sense  really 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  243 

involved  in  the  word  curiosity^  thinking  enough  was 
said  to  stamp  M.  Sainte-Beuve  with  blame  if  it  was 
said  that  he  was  impelled  in  his  ojserations  as  a  critic 
by  curiosity,  and  omitting  either  to  perceive  that  M. 
Sainte-Beuve  himself,  and  many  other  people  with  him, 
would  consider  that  this  was  praiseworthy  and  not 
blameworthy,  or  to  point  out  why  it  ought  really  to  be 
accounted  worthy  of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as 
there  is  a  curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which 
is  futile,  and  merely  a  disease,  so  there  is  certainly  a 
curiosity,  —  a  desire  after  the  things  of  the  mind  sim- 
ply for  their  own  sakes  and  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
them  as  they  are,  —  which  is,  in  an  intelligent  being, 
natural  and  laudable.  Nay,  and  the  very  desire  to  see 
things  as  they  are,  implies  a  balance  and  regulation  of 
mind  which  is  not  often  attained  without  fruitful  eifort, 
and  which  is  the  vei-y  opposite  of  the  blind  and  dis- 
eased impulse  of  mind  which  is  what  we  mean  to 
blame  when  we  blame  curiosity.  Montesquieu  says : 
"  The  first  motive  which  ought  to  impel  us  to  study 
is  the  desire  to  augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature, 
and  tp_render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelli- 
gent."^ This  is  the  true  ground  to  assign  for  the  gen- 
uine scientific  passion,  however  manifested,  and  for 
culture,  viewed  simply  as  a  fruit  of  this  passion ;  and 
it  is  a  worthy  ground,  even  though  we  let  the  term 
curiosity  stand  to  describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in  which  not 
solely  the  scientific  passion,  the  sheer  desire  to  see 
things  as  they  are,  natural  and  proper  in  an  intelligent 
being,  appears  as  the  ground  of  it.  There  is  a  view 
in  which  all  the  love  of  our  neighbor,  the  impulses 
towards  action,  help,  and  beneficence,  the  desire  for 
removing  human  error,  clearing  human  confusion,  and 
diminishing  human   misei'y,  the  noble  aspiration  to 


m  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

leave  the  world  better  and  happier  than  we  found  it, 

—  motives  eminently  such  as  ai-e  called  sociaj, —  come 

in  as  part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and  the  main  and 

^_^.eeniinent  part.   Culture  is  then  properly  clescrTbed 

not  as  having-  its  origin  in  curiosity,  but  as  having  its 

^^  '/(Origin  in  the  love  of  perfection ;  it  is  a  study  of  per- 

«.    p    fection.  It  moves  by  the  force,  not  merely  or  primar- 

*^  '      ily  of  the  scientific  passion  for  pure  knowledge,  but 

also  of  the  moral  and  social  passion  for  doing  good. 


^ 
^ 


J  As,  in  the  first   view  of  it,  we  took  for  its  worthy 


y\  J-^^*?    ^"    ^^^    iiisi/    view    ui    iL,   we    luutL   lui'   lis    woiiuy 

jIa^    motto  Montesquieu's  words :   ''  To  render  an  intelli- 

'^  >  'gent  being  yet  more  intelligent!"  so,  in  the  second 
view  of  it,  there  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can  have 
than  these  words  of  Bishop  Wilson ;  ^  "  To  make 
reason  and_ the  wiU  of  God  prevaiLI  "^ 

Only,  whereas  the  passion  for  doing  good  is  apt  to 
be  overhastv  in  determininjj  what  reason  and  the  will 

■*v^  ^ )  of  God  say,  because  its  turn  is  for  acting  rather  than 
thinking  and  it  wants  to  be  beginning  to  act;  and 
whereas  it  is  apt  to  take  its  own  conceptions,  which 
proceed  from  its  ovm  state  of  development  and  share 
in  all  the  imj^erfections  and  immaturities  of  this,  for 
a  basis  of  action;  what  distinguishes  culture  is,  that 
0  it  is  possessed  by  the  scientific  passion  as  well  as  by 
the  passion  of  doing  good  ;  that  it  demands  worthy 
notions  of  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  and  does  not 
readilj"-  suffer  its  own  crude  conceptions  to  substitute 
themselves  for  them.  And  knowing  that  no  action  or 
institution  can  be  salutary  and  stable  which  is  not 
based  on  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  it  is  not  so  bent 
on  acting  and  instituting,  even  with  the  great  aim  of 
diminishing  human  error  and  misery  ever  before  its 
thoughts,  but  that  it  can  remember  that  acting  and  in- 
stituting are  of  little  use.  unless  we  know  how  and 
what  we  oufrht  to  act  and  to  institute. 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  245 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and  more  far-reach- 
ing than  that  other,  which  is  founded  solely  on  the 
scientific  passion  for  knowing.  But  it  needs  times  of 
faith  and  ardor,  times  when  the  intellectual  horizon  is 
opening  and  widening  all  around  us,  to  flourish  in. 
And  is  not  the  close  and  bounded  intellectual  horizon 
within  which  we  have  long  lived  and  moved  now  lift- 
ing up,  and  are  not  new  lights  finding  free  passage  to 
shine  in  upon  us  ?  For  a  long  time  there  was  no  pas- 
sage for  them  to  make  their  way  in  upon  us,  and  then 
it  was  of  no  use  to  think  of  adapting  the  world's  action 
to  them.  Where  was  the  hope  of  making  reason  and 
the  will  of  God  prevail  among  peoj^le  who  had  a  rou- 
tine which  they  had  christened  reason  and  the  will  of 
God,  in  which  they  were  inextricably  bound,  and  be- 
yond which  they  had  no  power  of  looking?  But  now 
the  iron  force  of  adhesion  to  the  old  routine,  —  social, 
political,  religious,  —  has  wonderfully  yielded ;  the  iron 
force  of  exclusion  of  all  which  is  new  has  wonderfully 
yielded.  The  danger  now  is,  not  that  people  should 
obstinately  refuse  to  allow  anything  but  their  old  rou- 
tine to  pass  for  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  but  either 
that  they  should  allow  some  novelty  or  other  to  pass 
for  these  too  easily,  or  else  that  they  should  underrate 
the  importance  of  them  altogether,  and  think  it  enough 
to  follow  action  for  its  own  sake,  without  troubling 
themselves  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  pre- 
vail therein.  Now,  then,  is  the  moment  for  culture  to 
be  of  service,  culture  which  believes  in  making  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  prevail,  believes  in  perfection,  is 
the  study  and  pursuit  of  perfection,  and  is  no  longer 
debarred,  by  a  rigid  invincible  exclusion  of  whatever 
is  new,  from  getting  acceptance  for  its  ideas,  simply 
because  they  are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is  seized,   the 


246  ]\L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

moment  it  is  regarded  not  solely  as  tlie  endeavor  to 
see  things  as  they  are,  to  draw  towards  a  knowledge  of 
the  universal  order  which  seems  to  be  intended  and 
aimed  at  in  the  world,  and  which  it  is  a  man's  happi- 
ness to  go  along  with  or  his  misery  to  go  counter  to,  — 
to  learn,  in  short,  the  will  of  God,  —  the  moment,  I 
say,  culture  is  considered  not  merely  as  the  endeavor 
to  see  and  learn  this,  but  as  the  endeavor,  also,  to 
make  it  prevail.,  the  moral,  social,  and  beneficent 
character  of  culture  becomes  manifest.  The  mere  en- 
deavor to  see  and  learn  the  truth  for  our  own  personal 
satisfaction  is  indeed  a  commencement  for  making  it 
prevail,  a  preparing  the  way  for  this,  which  always 
serves  this,  and  is  wrongly,  therefore,  stamped  with 
blame  absolutely  in  itself  and  not  only  in  its  carica- 
ture and  degeneration.  But  perhaps  it  has  got  stamped 
with  blame,  and  disparaged  with  the  dubious  title  of 
curiosity,  because  in  comparison  with  this  wider  en- 
deavor of  such  great  and  plain  utility  it  looks  selfish, 
petty,  and  unprofitable. 

And  religion,  the  greatest  and  most  important  of 
the  efforts  by  which  the-  human  race  has  manifested 
its  impulse  to  perfect  itself,  —  religion,  that  voice  of 
the  deepest  human  experience,  —  does  not  only  enjoin 
and  sanction  the  aim  which  is  the  gi-eat  aim  of  culture, 
the  aim  of  setting  ourselves  to  ascertain  what  perfec- 
tion is  and  to  make  it  prevail ;  but  also,  in  determin- 
ing generally  in  what  human  perfection  consists,  re- 
ligion comes  to  a  conclusion  identical  with  that  which 
culture,  —  culture  seeking  the  determination  of  this 
question  through  all  the  voices  of  human  experience 
which  have  been  heard  upon  it,  of  art,  science,  poetry, 
philosophy,  history,  as  well  as  of  religion,  in  order  to 
give  a  greater  fulness  and  certainty  to  its  solution,  — 
likewise  reaches.  Religion  says :  The  kingdom  of  God 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  247 

is  within  you  ;  and  culture,  in  like  manner,  places  hu- 
man perfection  in  an  internal  condition,  in  the  growth  ! 
and  predominance  of  our  humanity  proper,  as  distin-  • 
guished  from  our  animality.  It  places  it  in  the  ever- 
increasing  efficacy  and  in  the  general  harmonious  ex- 
pansion of  those  gifts  of  thought  and  feeling,  which 
make  the  peculiar  dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of 
human  nature.  As  I  have  said  on  a  former  occasion  : 
"  It  is  in  making  endless  additions  to  itself,  in  the 
endless  expansion  of  its  powers,  in  endless  growth  in 
wisdom  and  beauty,  that  the  spirit  of  the  human  race 
finds  its  ideal.  To  reach  this  ideal,  culture  is  an  in- 
dispensable aid,  and  that  is  the  true  value  of  culture." 
Not  a  having  and  a  resting,  but  a  growing  and  a  be-  '^ 
coming,  is  the  character  of  perfection  as  culture  con- 
ceives it ;  and  here,  too,  it  coincides  with  religion. 

And  because  men  are  all  members  of  one  great 
whole,  and  the  sympathy  which  is  in  human  nature 
will  not  allow  one  member  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
rest  or  to  have  a  perfect  welfare  independent  of  the 
rest,  the  expansion  of  our  humanity,  to  suit  the  idea 
of  perfection  which  culture  forms,  must  be  a  general 
expansion.  jPerffiction,  as  culture  conceives  it,  is  not 
possible  while  the  individual  remains  isolated.  The 
incHvidual  is  required,  under  pain  of  being  stunted 
and  enfeebled  in  his  own  development  if  he  disobeys, 
to  carry  others  along  with  him  in  his  march  towards 
perfection,  to  be  continually  doing  all  he  can  to  en- 
large and  increase  the  volume  of  the  human  stream 
sweeping  thitherward.  And,  here,  once  more,  culture 
lays  on  us  the  same  obligation  as  religion,  which  says, 
as  Bishop  Wilson  has  admirably  put  it,  that  "  to 
promote  the  kingdom  of  God  is  to  increase  and  hasten 
one's  own  happiness."  ^ 

But,  finally,  perfection,  —  as  culture  from  a  thorough 


5) 


'^ 


248  '  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

clisinterestecl  study  of  human  nature  and  human  ex- 
perience learns  to  conceive  it,  —  is  a  harmonious  ex- 
pansion of  all  the  powers  which  make  the  beauty  and 
worth  of  human  nature,  and  is  not  consistent  with  the 
over-development  of  any  one  power  at  the  expense  of 
the  rest.  Here  culture  goes  beyond  religion  as  religion 
is  generally  conceived  by  us. 

If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection,  and  of 
harmonious  perfection,  general  perfection,  and  perfec- 
tion which  consists  in  becoming  something  rather  than 
in  having  something,  in  an  inward  condition  of  the 
mind  and  spirit,  not  in  an  outward  set  of  circum- 
stances, —  it  is  clear  that  cidture,  instead  of  being 
the  frivolous  and  useless  thing  which  Mr.  Bright,^  and 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,^  and  many  other  Liberals  are 
apt  to  call  it,  has  a  very  important  function  to  fidfil 
for  mankind.  And  this  function  is  particularly  im- 
portant in  our  moclern  world,  of  which  the  whole  civ- 
ilization is,  to  a  much  greater  degree  than  the  civili- 
zation of  Greece  and  Rome,  mechanical  and  external,^ 
and  tends  constantly  to  become  more  so.  But  above  all 
in  our  own  country  has  culture  a  weighty  part  to 
perform,  because  here  that  mechanical  character, 
which  civilization  tends  to  take  everywhere,  is  shown 
in  the  most  eminent  degree.  Indeed  nearly  all  the 
characters  of  perfection,  as  culture  teaches  us  to  fix 
them,  meet  in  this  country  with  some  powerful  ten- 
dency which  thwarts  them*  and  sets  them  at  defiance. 
The  idea  of  perfection  as  an  mioqrcl  condition  of  the 
mind  and  spirit  is  at  variance  with  the  mechanical 
and  material  civilization  in  esteem  with  us,  and  no- 
where, as  I  have  said,  so  much  in  esteem  as  with 
us.  The  idea  of  perfection  as  a  gejieral  expansion  of 
the  human  family  is  at  variance  with  our  strong  in- 
dividualism, our  hatred  of  all  limits  to  the  unrestrained 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  249 

swing  of  the  individual's  personality,  our  maxim  of 
"every  man  for  himself."  Above  all,  the  idea  of  per- 
fection as  a  harmonious  expansion  of  human  nature 
is  at  variance  with  our  want  of  flexibility,  with  our 
inaptitude  for  seeing  more  than  one  si(Ie  of  a  thing, 
with  our  intense  energetic  absorj^tion  in  the  particular 
pursuit  we  happen  to  be  following.  So  culture  has  a 
rough  task  to  achieve  in  this  country.  Its  preachers 
have,  and  are  likely  long  to  have,  a  hard  time  of  it, 
and  they  will  much  oftener  be  regarded,  for  a  great 
while  to  come,  as  elegant  or  spurious  Jeremiahs  than 
as  friends  and  benefactors.  That,  however,  will  not 
prevent  their  doing  in  the  end  good  service  if  they 
persevere.  And,  meanwhile,  the  mode  of  action  they 
have  to  pursue,  and  the  sort  of  habits  they  must  fight 
against,  ought  to  be  made  quite  clear  for  every  one 
to  see,  who  may  be  willing  to  look  at  the  matter  at- 
tentively and  dispassionately. 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  besetting  danger ; 
often  in  machinery  most  absurdly  disproportioned  to 
the  end  which  this  machinery,  if  it  is  to  do  any  good 
at  all,  is  to  serve ;  but  always  in  machinery,  as  if  it 
had  a  value  in  and  for  itself.  What  is  freedom  but 
machinery  ?  what  is  population  but  machinery  ?  what 
is  coal  but  machinery?  what  are  railroads  but  ma- 
chinery? what  is  wealth  but  machinery?  what  are, 
even,  religious  organizations  but  machinery  ?  Now 
almost  every  voice  in  England  is  accustomed  to  speak 
of  these  things  as  if  they  were  precious  ends  in  them- 
selves, and  therefore  had  some  of  the  characters  of 
perfection  indisputably  joined  to  them.  I  have  before 
now  noticed  Mr.  Roebuck's  ^  stock  argument  for  prov- 
ing the  greatness  and  happiness  of  England  as  she  is, 
and  for  quite  stopping  the  mouths  of  all  gainsayers. 
Mr.  Roebuck  is  never  weary  of  reiterating  this  argu- 


250  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ment  of  his,  so  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  be  weary 
of  noticing  it.  "  May  not  every  man  in  England  say 
what  he  likes  ?  "  —  Mr.  Roebuck  perpetually  asks ;  and 
that,  he  thinks,  is  quite  sufficient,  and  when  every  man 
may  say  what  he  likes,  our  aspirations  ought  to  be 
satisfied.  But  the  aspirations  of  culture,  which  is  the 
study  of  perfection,  are  not  satisfied,  unless  what  men 
say,  when  they  may  say  what  they  like,  is  worth  saying, 
—  has  good  in  it,  and  more  good  than  bad.  In  the 
same  way  the  Times,  replying  to  some  foreign  stric- 
tures on  the  dress,  looks,  and  behavior  of  the  English 
abroad,  urges  that  the  English  ideal  is  that  every  one 
should  be  free  to  do  and  to  look  just  as  he  likes.  But 
culture  indefatigably  tries,  not  to  make  what  each  raw 
person  may  like,  the  rule  by  which  he  fashions  him- 
self;  but  to  draw  ever  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is 
indeed  beautiful,  graceful,  and  becoming,  and  to  get 
the  raw  person  to  like  that. 

And  in  the  same  way  with  respect  to  railroads  and 
coal.  Every  one  must  have  observed  the  strange  lan- 
guage current  during  the  late  discussions  as  to  the 
possible  failure  of  our  supplies  of  coal.  Our  coal, 
thousands  of  people  were  saying,  is  the  real  basis  of 
our  national  greatness ;  if  our  coal  runs  short,  there  is 
an  end  of  the  greatness  of  England.  But  what  is  great- 
ness ?  —  culture  makes  as  ask.  Greatness  is  a  spiritual 
condition  worthy  to  excite  love,  interest,  and  admira- 
tion ;  and  the  outward  proof  of  possessing  greatness  is 
that  we  excite  love,  interest,  and  admiration.  If  Eng- 
land were  swallowed  up  by  the  sea  to-morrow,  which  of 
the  two,  a  hundred  years  hence,  would  most  excite  the 
love,  interest,  and  admiration  of  mankind, — -would 
most,  tlierefore,  show  the  evidences  of  having  possessed 
greatness,  —  the  England  of  the  last  twenty  years,  or 
the  England  of  Elizabeth,  of  a  time  of  splendid  spir- 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  251 

itual  effort,  but  when  our  coal,  and  our  industrial  opera- 
tions depending  on  coal,  were  very  little  developed  ? 
Well,  then,  what  an  unsound  habit  of  mind  it  must  be 
which  makes  us  talk  of  things  like  coal  or  iron  as 
constituting  the  greatness  of  England,  and  how  salu- 
tary a  friend  is  culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they 
are,  and  thus  dissipating  delusions  of  this  kind  and 
fixing  standards  of  perfection  that  are  real ! 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our  prodigious 
works- for  material  advantage  are  directed,  —  the  com- 
monest of  commonplaces  tells  us  how  men  are  always 
apt  to  regard  wealth  as  a  precious  end  in  itself ;  and 
certainly  they  have  never  been  so  apt  thus  to  regard 
it  as  they  are  in  England  at  the  present  time.  Never 
did  people  believe  anything  more  firmly  than  nine 
Englishmen  out  of  ten  at  the  present  day  believe  that 
our  greatness  and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  so 
very  rich.  Now,  the  use  of  culture  is  that  it  helps  us, 
by  means  of  its  spiritual  standard  of  perfection,  to 
regard  wealth  as  but  machinery,  and  not  only  to  say 
as  a  matter  of  words  that  we  regard  wealth  as  bvit 
machinery,  but  really  to  perceive  and  feel  that  it  is 
so.  If  it  were  not  for  this  purging  effect  wrought  upon 
our  minds  by  culture,  the  whole  world,  the  future  as 
well  as  the  present,  would  inevitably  belong  to  the 
Philistines.  The  people  who  believe  most  that  our 
greatness  and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  very 
rich,  and  who  most  give  their  lives  and  thoughts  to 
becoming  rich,  are  just  the  very  people  whom  we  call 
Philistines.  Culture  says :  "  Consider  these  people, 
then,  their  way  of  life,  their  habits,  their  manners,  the 
very  tones  of  their  voice  ;  look  at  them  attentively ; 
observe  the  literature  they  read,  the  things  which  give 
them  pleasure,  the  words  which  come  forth  out  of 
their  mouths,  the  thoughts  which  make  the  furniture 


252  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  their  minds  ;  would  any  amount  of  wealth  be  worth 
having  with  the  condition  that  one  was  to  become  just 
like  these  people  by  having  it  ? "  And  thus  culture 
begets  a  dissatisfaction  which  is  of  the  highest  possible 
value  in  stemming  the  common  tide  of  men's  thougfhts 
in  a  wealthy  and  industrial  community,  and  which 
saves  the  future,  as  one  may  hope,  from  being  vulgar- 
ized, even  if  it  cannot  save  the  present. 

Population,  again,  and  bodily  health  and  vigor,  are 
things  which  are  nowhere  treated  in  such  an  unintelli- 
gent, misleading,  exaggerated  way  as  in  England. 
Both  are  really  machinery ;  yet  how  many  people  all 
around  us  do  we  see  rest  in  them  and  fail  to  look  be- 
yond them!  Why,  one  has  heard  people,  fresh  from 
reading  certain  articles  of  the  Times  on  the  Regis- 
trar-General's returns  of  marriages  and  births  in  this 
country,  who  would  talk  of  our  large  English  families 
in  quite  a  solamn  strain,  as  if  they  had  something  in 
itself  beautiful,  elevating,  and  meritorious  in  them  ; 
as  if  the  British  Philistine  would  have  only  to  present 
himself  before  the  Great  Judge  with  his  twelve  chil- 
dren, in  order  to  be  received  among  the  sheep  as  a 
matter  of  right! 

But  bodily  health  and  vigor,  it  may  be  said,  are 
not  to  be  classed  with  wealth  and  population  as  mere 
machinery  ;  they  have  a  more  real  and  essential  value. 
True ;  but  only  as  they  are  more  intimately  connected 
with  a  perfect  spiritual  condition  than  wealth  or  popu- 
lation are.  The  moment  we  disjoin  them  from  the  idea 
of  a  perfect  spiritual  condition,  and  pursue  them,  as  we 
do  pursue  them,  for  their  own  sake  and  as  ends  in  them- 
selves, our  worship  of  them  becomes  as  mere  worshij)  of 
machinery,  as  our  worship  of  wealth  or  population, 
and  as  unintelligent  and  vulgarizing  a  worship  as  that 
is.  Every  one  with  anything  like  an  adequate  idea  of 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  253 

human  perfection  has  distinctly  marked  this  subordina- 
tion to  higher  and  spii'itual  ends  of  the  cultivation  of 
bodily  vigor  and  activity.  "  Bodily  exercise  profiteth 
little ;  but  godliness  is  profitable  unto  all  things,"  ^ 
says  the  author  of  the  Epistle  to  Timothy.  And  the  util- 
itarian Franklin  says  just  as  exj^licitly:  —  "Eat  and 
drink  such  an  exact  quantity  as  suits  the  constitution  of 
thy  body,  in  reference  to  the  services  of  the  mind^  ^ 
But  the  point  of  view  of  culture,  keeping  the  mark  of 
human  perfection  simply  and  broadly  in  view,  and  not 
assigning  to  this  perfection,  as  religion  or  utilitarian- 
ism assigns  to  it,  a  special  and  limited  character,  this 
point  of  view,  I  say,  of  culture  is  best  given  by  these 
words  of  Epictetus :   "  It  is  a  sign  of  a<f)Via"  says  he, 

—  that  is,  of  a  nature  not  finely  tempered,  —  "to give 
yourselves  up  to  things  which  relate  to  the  body;  to 
make,  for  instance,  a  great  fuss  about  exercise,  a  great 
fuss  about  eating,  a  great  fuss  about  drinking,  a  great 
fuss  about  walking,  a  great  fuss  about  riding.  All 
these  things  ought  to  be  done  merely  by  the  way :  the 
formation  of  the  spirit  and  character  must  be  our  real 
concern."^  This  is  admirable;  and,  indeed,  the  Greek 
word  €v(})vta,  a  finely  tempered  nature,  gives  exactly 
the  notion  of  perfection  as  culture  brings  us  to  con- 
ceive it:  a  hai'monious  perfection,  a  perfection  in 
which  the  characters  of  beauty  and  intelligence  are 
both  present,  which  unites  "  the  two  noblest  of  things," 

—  as  Swift,  who  of  one  of  the  two,  at  any  rate,  had 
himself  all  too  little,  most  happily  calls  them  in  his 
Battle  of  the  Books,  —  "  the  two  noblest  of  things, 
sweetness  and  light."  *  The  ev(f)vi]<i  is  the  man  who 
tends  towards  sweetness  and  light ;  the  ck^u?^?,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  our  Philistine.  The  immense  spiritual 
significance  of  the  Greeks  is  due  to  their  having  been 
inspired  with  this  central  and  happy  idea  of  the  essen- 


254  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

tial  character  of  human  perfection ;  and  Mr.  Bright's 
misconception  of  culture,  as  a  smattering  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  comes  itself,  after  all,  from  this  wonderful 
significance  of  the  Greeks  having  affected  the  very 
machinery  of  our  education,  and  is  in  itself  a  kind  of 
homage  to  it. 

In  thus  making  sweetness  and  light  to  be  charac- 
ters of  perfection,  culture  is  of  like  spirit  with  poetry, 
follows  one  law  with  poetry.  Far  more  than  on  our 
freedom,  our  population,  and  our  industrialism,  many 
amongst  us  rely  upon  our  religious  organizations  to 
save  us.  I  have  called  religion  a  yet  more  important 
manifestation  of  human  nature  than  poetry,  because 
it  has  worked  on  a  broader  scale  for  perfection,  and 
with  greater  masses  of  men.  But  the  idea  of  beauty 
and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on  all  its  sides,  which 
is  the  dominant  idea  of  poetry,  is  a  true  and  invalu- 
able idea,  though  it  has  not  yet  had  the  success  that 
the  idea  of  conquering  the  obvious  faults  of  our  ani- 
mality,  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on  the  moral 
side,  —  which  is  the  dominant  idea  of  religion,  —  has 
been  enabled  to  have ;  and  it  is  destined,  adding  to 
itself  the  religious  idea  of  a  devout  energy,  to  trans- 
form and  govern  the  other. 

The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  in  which 
religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in  which  the  idea  of 
beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on  all  sides 
adds  to  itself  a  religious  and  devout  energy,  and  works 
in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on  this  account  of  such  sur- 
passing interest  and  instructiveness  for  us,  though  it 
was,  —  as,  having  regard  to  the  human  race  in  general, 
and,  indeed,  having  regard  to  the  Greeks  themselves, 
we  must  own,  —  a  premature  attempt,  an  attempt  which 
for  success  needed  the  moral  and  religious  fibre  in  hu- 
manity to  be  more  braced  and  developed  than  it  had  yet 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  255 

been.  But  Greece  did  not  err  in  having  the  idea  of 
beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection,  so 
present  and  paramount.  It  is  impossible  to  have  this 
idea  too  present  and  paramount ;  only,  the  moral  fibre 
must  be  braced  too.  And  we,  because  we  have  braced 
the  moral  fibre,  are  not  on  that  account  in  the  right 
way,  if  at  the  same  time  the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony, 
and  complete  human  perfection,  is  wanting  or  misap- 
prehended amongst  us ;  and  evidently  it  is  wanting  or 
misapprehended  at  present.  And  when  we  rely  as  we 
do  on  our  religious  organizations,  which  in  themselves 
do  not  and  cannot  give  us  this  idea,  and  think  we  have 
done  enough  if  we  make  them  spread  and  prevail,  then, 
I  say,  we  fall  into  our  common  fault  of  overvaluing 
machinery. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  people  to  con- 
found the  inward  peace  and  satisfaction  which  follows 
the  subduing  of  the  obvious  faults  of  our  animality 
with  what  I  may  call  absolute  inward  peace  and  satis- 
faction, —  the  peace  and  satisfaction  which  are  reached 
as  we  draw  near  to  complete  spiritual  perfection,  and 
not  merely  to  moral  perfection,  or  rather  to  relative 
moral  perfection.  No  people  in  the  world  have  done 
more  and  struggled  more  to  attain  this  relative  moral 
perfection  than  our  English  race  has.  For  no  people 
in  the  world  has  the  command  to  resist  the  devil,  to 
overcome  the  wicked  one,  in  the  nearest  and  most  ob- 
vious sense  of  those  words,  had  such  a  pressing  force 
and  reality.  And  we  have  had  our  reward,  not  only  in 
the  great  worldly  prosperity  which  our  obedience  to 
this  command  has  brought  us,  but  also,  and  far  more, 
in  great  inward  peace  and  satisfaction.  But  to  me  few 
things  are  more  pathetic  than  to  see  people,  on  the 
strength  of  the  inward  peace  and  satisfaction  which 
their   rudimentary  efforts   towards    perfection    have 


256  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

brought  them,  employ,  concerning  their  incomplete 
perfection  and  the  religious  organizations  within  which 
they  have  found  it,  language  which  properly  applies 
only  to  complete  perfection,  and  is  a  far-off  echo  of 
the  human  soul's  prophecy  of  it.  Religion  itself,  I 
need  hardly  say,  supplies  them  in  abundance  with  this 
grand  language.  And  very  freely  do  they  use  it ;  yet 
it  is  really  the  severest  possible  criticism  of  such  an 
incomplete  perfection  as  alone  we  have  yet  reached 
through  our  religious  organizations. 

The  impulse  of  the  English  race  towards  moral 
development  and  self-conquest  has  nowhere  so  power- 
fully manifested  itself  as  in  Puritanism.  Nowhere  has 
Puritanism  found  so  adequate  an  expression  as  in 
the  religious  organization  of  the  Independents.^  The 
modern  Independents  have  a  newspaper,  the  ]Voiico7i- 
form  ist,  written  with  great  sincerity  and  ability.  The 
motto,  the  standard,  the  profession  of  faith  which  this 
organ  of  theirs  carries  aloft,  is :  "  The  Dissidence  of 
Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  reli- 
gion." 2  There  is  sweetness  and  light,  and  an  ideal 
of  complete  harmonious  human  perfection  !  One  need 
not  go  to  cidture  and  poetry  to  find  language  to  judge 
it.  Religion,  with  its  instinct  for  perfection,  supplies 
language  to  judge  it,  language,  too,  which  is  in  our 
mouths  every  day.  "  Finally,  be  of  one  mind,  united 
in  feeling,"  ^  says  St.  Peter.  There  is  an  ideal  which 
judges  the  Puritan  ideal :  "  The  Dissidence  of  Dissent 
and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion ! " 
And  religious  organizations  like  this  are  what  people 
believe  in,  rest  in,  would  give  tlieir  lives  for!  Such, 
I  say,  is  the  wonderful  virtue  of  even  the  beginnings 
of  perfection,  of  having  conquered  even  the  plain 
faults  of  our  animality,  that  the  religious  organiza- 
tion which  has  helped  us  to  do  it  can  seem  to  us 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  257 

something  precious,  salutary,  and  to  be  propagated, 
even  when  it  wears  such  a  bi-and  of  imperfection  on 
its  forehead  as  this.  And  men  have  got  such  a  habit 
of  giving  to  the  language  of  religion  a  special  appli- 
cation, of  making  it  a  mere  jargon,  that  for  the 
condemnation  which  religion  itself  passes  on  the  short- 
comings of  their  religious  organizations  they  have  no 
ear ;  they  are  sure  to  cheat  themselves  and  to  explain 
this  condemnation  away.  They  can  only  be  reached 
by  the  criticism  which  culture,  like  poetry,  speaking 
a  language  not  to  be  sophisticated,  and  resolutely 
testing  these  organizations  by  the  ideal  of  a  human 
perfection  complete  on  all  sides,  applies  to  them. 

But  men  of  culture  and  poetry,  it  will  be  said,  are 
again  and  again  failing,  and  failing  consjjicuously,  in 
the  necessary  first  stage  to  a  harmonious  perfection, 
in  the  subduing  of  the  great  obvious  faults  of  our 
animality,  which  it  is  the  glory  of  these  religious  or- 
ganizations to  have  helped  us  to  subdue.  True,  they 
do  often  so  fail.  They  have  often  been  without  the 
virtues  as  well  as  the  faults  of  the  Puritan;  it  has 
been  one  of  their  dangers  that  they  so  felt  the  Puri- 
tan's faults  that  they  too  much  neglected  the  practice 
of  his  virtues.  I  will  not,  however,  exculpate  them  at  the 
Puritan's  expense.  They  have  often  failed  in  morality, 
and  morality  is  indispensable.  And  they  have  been 
punished  for  their  failure,  as  the  Puritan  has  been  re- 
warded for  his  performance.  They  have  been  punished 
wherein  they  erred  ;  but  their  ideal  of  beauty,  of  sweet- 
ness and  light,  and  a  human  nature  complete  on  all  its 
sides,  remains  the  true  ideal  of  perfection  still ;  just  as 
the  Puritan's  ideal  of  perfection  remains  narrow  and 
inadequate,  although  for  what  he  did  well  he  has  been 
richly  rewarded.  Notwithstanding  the  mighty  results 
of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers'  voyage,  they  and  their  standard 


258  :MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

of  perfection  are  rightly  judged  when  we  figure  to 
ourselves  Shakespeare  or  Virgil,  —  souls  in  whom 
sweetness  and  light,  and  all  that  in  human  nature  is 
most  humane,  were  eminent,  —  accompanying  them 
on  their  voyage,  and  think  what  intolerable  company 
Shakespeare  and  Virgil  would  have  found  them!  In 
the  same  way  let  us  judge  the  religious  organizations 
which  we  see  all  aroimd  us.  Do  not  let  us  deny  the 
good  and  the  happiness  which  they  have  accomplished  ; 
but  do  not  let  us  fail  to  see  clearly  that  their  idea  of 
human  perfection  is  narrow  and  inadequate,  and  that 
the  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the 
Protestant  religion  will  never  bring  humanity  to  its 
true  goal.  As  I  said  with  regard  to  wealth:  Let  us 
look  at  the  life  of  those  who  live  in  and  for  it, —  so  I 
say  with  regard  to  the  religious  organizations.  Look 
at  the  life  imaged  in  such  a  newspaper  as  the  Non- 
co7iformist,  —  a  life  of  jealousy  of  the  Establishment, 
disputes,  tea-meetings,  openings  of  chapels,  sermons  ; 
and  then  think  of  it  as  an  ideal  of  a  human  life  com- 
pleting itself  on  all  sides,  and  aspiring  with  all  its 
organs  after  sweetness,  light,  and  perfection  ! 

Another  newspaper,  representing,  like  the  Noncon- 
Jorynist,  one  of  the  religious  organizations  of  this 
country,  was  a  short  time  ago  giving  an  account  of 
the  crowd  at  Epsom  ^  on  the  Derby  day,  and  of  all 
the  vice  and  hideousness  which  was  to  be  seen  in  that 
crowd  ;  and  then  the  writer  turned  suddenly  round 
upon  Professor  Huxley,  and  asked  him  how  he  pro- 
posed to  cure  all  this  vice  and  hideousness  without 
religion.  I  confess  I  felt  disposed  to  ask  the  asker 
this  question :  and  how  do  you  propose  to  cure  it 
with  such  a  religion  as  yours?  How  is  the  ideal  of 
a  life  so  unlovely,  so  unattractive,  so  incomplete,  so 
narrow,  so  far  removed  from  a  true  and  satisfying  ideal 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  259 

of  human  perfection,  as  is  the  life  of  your  religious 
organization  as  you  yourself  reflect  it,  to  conquer  and 
transform  all  this  vice  and  hideousness  ?  Indeed,  the 
strongest  plea  for  the  study  of  perfection  as  pursued 
by  culture,  the  clearest  proof  of  the  actual  inadequacy 
of  the  idea  of  perfection  held  by  the  religious  organi- 
zations, —  expressing,  as  I  have  said,  the  most  wide- 
spread effort  which  the  human  race  has  yet  made 
after  perfection,  —  is  to  be  found  in  the  state  of  our 
life  and  society  with  these  in  possession  of  it,  and 
having  been  in  possession  of  it  I  know  not  how  many 
hundred  years.  We  are  all  of  us  included  in  some 
religious  organization  or  other  ;  we  all  call  ourselves, 
in  the  sublime  and  aspiring  language  of  religion  which 
I  have  before  noticed,  children  of  God.  Children  of 
God  ;  —  it  is  an  immense  pretension  !  —  and  how  are 
we  to  justify  it  ?  By  the  works  which  we  do,  and  the 
words  which  we  speak.  And  the  work  which  we  col- 
lective children  of  God  do,  our  grand  centre  of  life, 
our  city  which  we  have  builded  for  us  to  dwell  in,  is 
London !  London,  with  its  unutterable  external  hide- 
ousness, and  with  its  internal  canker  oi puhlice  egestaSy 
privatim  opulentia^  —  to  use  the  words  which  Sal- 
lust  puts  into  Cato's  mouth  about  Rome,  —  unequalled 
in  the  world !  The  word,  again,  which  we  children  of 
God  speak,  the  voice  which  most  hits  our  collective 
thought,  the  newspaper  with  the  largest  circulation  in 
England,  nay,  with  the  largest  circulation  in  the  whole 
world,  is  the  Daily  Telegraph!'^  I  say  that  when  our 
religious  organizations  —  which  I  admit  to  express  the 
most  considerable  effort  after  perfection  that  our  race 
has  yet  made  —  land  us  in  no  better  result  than  this, 
it  is  high  time  to  examine  carefully  their  idea  of  per- 
fection, to  see  whether  it  does  not  leave  out  of  account 
sides  and  forces  of  human  nature  which  we  might  turn 


260  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

to  great  use  ;  whether  it  would  not  be  more  operative 
if  it  were  more  complete.  And  I  say  that  the  English 
reliance  on  our  religious  organizations  and  on  their 
ideas  of  human  perfection  just  as  they  stand,  is  like 
our  reliance  on  freedom,  on  muscular  Christianity, 
on  population,  on  coal,  on  wealth, — mere  vbelief  in 
machinery,  and  unfruitful ;  and  that  it  is  wholesomely 
counteracted  by  culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they 
are,  and  on  drawing  the  human  race  onwards  to  a 
more  complete,  a  harmonious  i)erfection. 

Culture,  however,  shows  its  single-minded  love  of 
perfection,  its  desire  simply  to  make  reason  and  the 
will  of  God  prevail,  its  freedom  from  fanaticism,  by 
its  attitude  towards  all  this  machinery,  even  while  it 
insists  that  it  is  machinery.  Fanatics,  seeing  the  mis- 
chief men  do  themselves  by  their  blind  belief  in  some 
machinery  or  other,  —  whether  it  is  wealth  and  in- 
dustrialism, or  whether  it  is  the  cultivation  of  bodily 
strength  and  activity,  or  whether  it  is  a  political  or- 
ganization, —  or  whether  it  is  a  religious  organization, 
—  oppose  with  might  and  main  the  tendency  to  this 
or  that  political  and  religious  organization,  or  to  games 
and  athletic  exercises,  or  to  wealth  and  industrialism, 
and  try  violently  to  stop  it.  But  the  flexibility  which 
sweetness  and  light  give,  and  which  is  one  of  the  re- 
wards of  culture  pursued  in  good  faith,  enables  a  man 
to  see  that  a  tendency  may  be  necessary,  and  even,  as 
a  preparation  for  something  in  the  future,  salutary, 
and  yet  that  the  generations  or  individuals  who  obey 
this  tendency  are  sacrificed  to  it,  that  they  fall  short 
of  the  hope  of  perfection  by  following  it ;  and  that  its 
mischiefs  are  to  be  criticized,  lest  it  should  take  too 
firm  a  hold  and  last  after  it  has  served  its  purpose. 

Mr.  Gladstone  well  pointed  out,  in  a  speech  at 
Paris,  —  and  others  have  pointed  out  the  same  thing, 


SWEETNESb  AND  LIGHT  261 


—  how  necessary  is  the  present  great  movement  to- 
wards wealth  and  industrialism,  in  order  to  lay  broad 
foundations  of  material  well-being  for  the  society  of 
the  future.  The  worst  of  these  justifications  is,  that 
they  are  generally  addressed  to  the  very  people  en- 
gaged, body  and  soul,  in  the  movement  in  question ; 
at  all  events,  that  they  are  always  seized  with  the 
greatest  avidity  by  these  people,  and  taken  by  them 
as  quite  justifying  their  life ;  and  that  thus  they  tend 
to  harden  them  in  their  sins.  Now,  culture  admits  the 
necessity  of  the  movement  towards  fortune-making 
and  exaggerated  industrialism,  readily  allows  that  the 
future  may  derive  benefit  from  it ;  but  insists,  at  the 
same  time,  that  the  passing  generations  of  industrial- 
ists, —  forming,  for  the  most  part,  the  stout  main  body 
of  Philistinism,  —  are  sacrificed  to  it.  In  the  same  way, 
the  result  of  all  the  games  and  sports  which  occupy 
the  passing  generation  of  boys  and  young  men  may 
be  the  establishment  of  a  better  and  sounder  physical 
type  for  the  future  to  work  with.  Culture  does  not 
set  itself  against  the  games  and  sports ;  it  congratu- 
lates the  future,  and  hopes  it  will  make  a  good  use  of 
its  improved  physical  basis  ;  but  it  points  out  that  our 
passing  generation  of  boys  and  young  men  is,  mean- 
time, sacrificed.  Puritanism  was  perhaps  necessary  to 
develop  the  moral  fibre  of  the  English  race,  Noncon- 
formity to  break  the  yoke  of  ecclesiastical  domination 
over  men's  minds  and  to  prepare  the  way  for  freedom 
of  thought  in  the  distant  future  ;  still,  culture  points 
oat  that  the  harmonious  perfection  of  generations 
of  Puritans  and  Nonconformists  has  been,  in  conse- 
quence,  sacrificed.  Freedom  of  speech  may  be  neces- 
sary for  the  society  of  the  future,  but  the  young  lions  ^ 
of  the  Daily  Telegraph  in  the  meanwhile  are  sacri- 
ficed. A  voice  for  every  man  in  his  country's  govern- 


262  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ment  may  be  necessary  for  the  society  of  the  future, 
but  meanwhile  Mr.  Beales^  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  ^  are 
sacrificed. 

Oxford,  the  Oxford  of  the  past,  has  many  faults ; 
and  she  has  heavily  paid  for  them  in  defeat,  in  isola- 
tion, in  want  of  hold  upon  the  modern  world.  Yet  we 
in  Oxford,  brought  up  amidst  the  beauty  and  sweet- 
ness of  that  beautiful  place,  have  not  failed  to  seize 
one  truth,  —  the  truth  that  beauty  and  sweetness  are 
essential  characters  of  a  complete  human  perfection. 
When  I  insist  on  this,  I  am  all  in  the  faith  and  tra- 
dition of  Oxford.  I  say  boldly  that  this  our  senti- 
ment for  beauty  and  sweetness,  our  sentiment  against 
hideousness  and  rawness,  has  been  at  the  bottom  of 
our  attachment  to  so  many  beaten  causes,  of  our  op- 
position to  so  many  triumphant  movements.  And  the 
sentiment  is  true,  and  has  never  been  wholly  defeated, 
and  has  shown  its  power  even  in  its  defeat.  We  have 
not  won  our  political  battles,  we  have  not  carried  our 
main  points,  we  have  not  stojsped  our  adversaries' 
advance,  we  have  not  marched  victoriously  with  the 
modern  world ;  but  we  have  told  silently  upon  the 
mind  of  the  country,  we  have  prepared  currents  of 
feeling  which  sap  our  adversaries'  position  when  it 
seems  gained,  we  have  kept  up  our  own  communica- 
tions with  the  future.  Look  at  the  course  of  the  great 
movement  which  shook  Oxford  to  its  centre  some 
thirty  years  ago !  It  was  directed,  as  any  one  who 
reads  Dr.  Newman's  Apology  ^  may  see,  against  what 
in  one  word  may  be  called  "  Liberalism."  Liberalism 
prevailed  ;  it  was  the  appointed  force  to  do  the  work 
of  the  hour ;  it  was  necessary,  it  was  inevitable  that  it 
should  prevail.  The  Oxford  movement  was  broken,  it 
failed  ;  our  wrecks  are  scattered  on  every  shore  :  — 
"  Quae  regio  in  terris  iiostri  non  pleua  laboris  ?  "  ^ 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  263 

But  what  was  it,  this  liberalism,  as  Dr.  Newman  saw 
it,  and  as  it  really  broke  the  Oxford  movement?  It 
was  the  great  middle-class  liberalism,  which  had  for 
the  cardinal  points  of  its  belief  the  Reform  Bill  of 
1832,1  a^jj(j  local  self-government,  in  politics ;  in  the 
social  sphere,  free-trade,  unrestricted  competition,  and 
the  making  of  large  industrial  fortunes ;  in  the  religious 
sphere,  the  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestant- 
ism of  the  Protestant  religion.  I  do  not  say  that  other 
and  more  intelligent  forces  than  this  were  not  opposed 
to  the  Oxford  movement :  but  this  was  the  force  which 
really  beat  it ;  this  was  the  force  which  Dr.  Newman 
felt  himself  fighting  with ;  this  was  the  force  which 
till  only  the  other  day  seemed  to  be  the  paramount 
force  in  this  country,  and  to  be  in  possession  of  the 
future  ;  this  was  the  force  whose  achievements  fill  Mr. 
Lowe 2  with  such  inexpi'essible  admiration,  and  whose 
rule  he  was  so  horror-struck  to  see  threatened.  And 
where  is  this  great  force  of  Philistinism  now  ?  It  is 
thrust  into  the  second  rank,  it  is  become  a  power  of 
yesterday,  it  has  lost  the  future.  A  new  power  has 
suddenly  appeared,  a  power  which  it  is  impossible  yet 
to  judge  fully,  but  which  is  certainly  a  wholly  difPerent 
force  from  middle-class  liberalism ;  different  in  its 
cardinal  points  of  belief,  different  in  its  tendencies  in 
every  sphere.  It  loves  and  admires  neither  the  legis- 
lation of  middle-class  Parliaments,  nor  the  local  self- 
government  of  middle-class  vestries,  nor  the  unrestricted 
competition  of  middle-class  industrialists,  nor  the  dis- 
sidence of  middle-class  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism 
of  middle-class  Protestant  religion.  I  am  not  now  prais- 
ing this  new  force,  or  saying  that  its  own  ideals  are  bet- 
ter ;  all  I  say  is,  that  they  are  wholly  different.  And 
who  will  estimate  how  much  the  currents  of  feelinar 
created  by  Dr.  Newman's  movements,  the  keen  desire 


264  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

for  beauty  and  sweetness  which  it  nourished,  the  deep 
aversion  it  manifested  to  the  hardness  and  vulgarity 
of  middle-class  liberalism,  the  strong  light  it  turned 
on  the  hideous  and  grotesque  illusions  of  middle-class 
Protestantism,  —  who  will  estimate  how  much  all  these 
contributed  to  swell  the  tide  of  secret  dissatisfaction 
which  has  mined  the  ground  under  self-confident  liber- 
alism of  the  last  thirty  years,  and  has  prepared  the 
way  for  its  sudden  collapse  and  supersession  ?  It  is  in 
this  manner  that  the  sentjment  of  Oxford  for  beauty 
and  sweetness  conquers,  and  in  this  manner  long  may 
it  continue  to  conquer! 

In  this  manner  it  works  to  the  same  end  as  culture, 
and  there  is  plenty  of  work  for  it  yet  to  do.  I  have  said 
that  the  new  and  more  democratic  force  which  is  now 
superseding  our  ohl  middle-class  liberalism  cannot  yet 
be  rightly  judged.  It  has  its  main  tendencies  still  to 
form.  We  hear  promises  of  its  giving  us  administra^ 
tive  reform,  law  reform,  reform  of  education,  and  I 
know  not  what ;  but  those  promises  come  rather  from 
its  advocates,  wishing  to  make  a  good  plea  for  it  and 
to  justify  it  for  superseding  middle-class  liberalism, 
than  from  clear  tendencies  which  it  has  itself  yet 
developed.  But  meanwhile  it  has  plenty  of  weU-inten- 
tioned  friends  against  whom  culture  may  with  advan- 
tage continue  to  uphold  steadily  its  ideal  of  human 
perfection  ;  that  this  is  an  inward  spiritual  activity^ 
having  for  its  characters  increased  siceetness,  in- 
creased light,  increased  life,  increased  sympathy. 
Mr.  Bright,  who  has  a  foot  in  both  worlds,  the  world 
of  midtUe-class  liberalism  and  the  world  of  democracy, 
but  who  brings  most  of  his  ideas  from  the  world  of 
middle-class  liberalism  in  which  he  was  bred,  always 
inclines  to  inculcate  that  faith  in  machinery  to  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  Englishmen  are  so  prone,  and  which 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  265 

has  been  the  bane  of  middle-class  liberalism.  He  com- 
plains with  a  sorrowful  indignation  of  people  who 
"  appear  to  have  no  proper  estimate  of  the  value  of 
the  franchise " ;  he  leads  his  disciples  to  believe  — 
what  the  Englishman  is  always  too  ready  to  believe 
— that  the  having  a  vote,  like  the  having  a  large 
family,  or  a  large  business,  or  large  muscles,  has  in 
itself  some  edifying  and  perfecting  effect  upon  human 
nature.  Or  else  he  cries  out  to  the  democracy,  —  "  the 
men,"  as  he  calls  them,  "  upon  whose  shoulders  the 
greatness  of  England  rests," — he  cries  out  to  them  : 
"  See  what  you  have  done !  I  look  over  this  country 
and  see  the  cities  you  have  built,  the  railroads  you 
have  made,  the  manufactures  you  have  produced,  the 
cargoes  which  freight  the  ships  of  the  greatest  mer- 
cantile navy  the  world  has  ever  seen !  I  see  that  you 
have  converted  by  your  labors  what  was  once  a  wil- 
derness, these  islands,  into  a  fruitful  garden  ;  I  know 
that  you  have  created  this  wealth,  and  are  a  nation 
whose  name  is  a  word  of  power  throughout  all  the 
world."  Why,  this  is  just  the  very  style  of  laudation 
with  which  Mr.  Roebuck  or  Mr.  Lowe  debauches  the 
minds  of  the  middle  classes,  and  makes  such  Philis- 
tines of  them.  It  is  the  same  fashion  of  teaching  a 
man  to  value  himself  not  on  what  he  is,  not  on  his 
progress  in  sweetness  and  light,  but  on  the  number 
of  the  railroads  he  has  constructed,  or  the  bigness  of 
the  tabernacle  he  has  built.  Only  the  middle  classes 
are  told  they  have  done  it  all  with  their  energy,  self- 
reliance,  and  capital,  and  the  democracy  are  told  they 
have  done  it  all  with  their  hands  and  sinews.  But 
teaching  the  democracy  to  put  its  trust  in  achieve- 
ments of  this  kind  is  merely  training  them  to  be  Philis- 
tines to  take  the  place  of  the  Philistines  whom  they 
are  superseding  ;  and  they,  too,  like  the  middle  class, 


266  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

will  be  encouraged  to  sit  down  at  the  banquet  of  the 
future  without  having  on  a  wedding  garment,  and 
nothing  excellent  can  then  come  from  them.  Those 
who  know  their  besetting  faults,  those  who  have 
watched  them  and  listened  to  them,  or  those  who  will 
read  the  instructive  account  recently  given  of  them  by 
one  of  themselves,  the  Journeyman  Engineer^  will 
agree  that  the  idea  which  culture  sets  before  us  of 
perfection,  —  an  increased  spiritual  activity,  having 
for  its  characters  increased  sweetness,  increased  light, 
increased  life,  increased  sympathy,  —  is  an  idea  which 
the  new  democracy  needs  far  more  than  the  idea  of 
the  blessedness  of  the  franchise,  or  the  wonderfulness 
of  its  own  industrial  performances. 

Other  well-meaning  friends  of  this  new  power  are 
for  leading  it,  not  ni  the  old  ruts  of  middle-class 
Philistinism,  but  in  ways  which  are  naturally  alluring 
to  the  feet  of  democracy,  tliough  in  this  country  they 
are  novel  and  untried  ways.  1  may  call  them  the  ways 
of  Jacobinism. 1  Violent  indignation  with  the  past, 
abstract  systems  of  renovation  applied  wholesale,  a 
new  doctrine  drawn  up  in  black  and  white  for  elab- 
orating down  to  the  very  smallest  details  a  rational 
society  for  the  future,  —  these  are  the  ways  of  Jaco- 
binism. Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  ^  and  other  disciples  of 
Comte, ^ — -one  of  them,  Mr.  Congreve,^  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  publicly  expressing  my  respect  for  his  talents  and 
character,  —  are  among  the  friends  of  democracy  who 
are  for  leading  it  in  paths  of  this  kind.  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  is  very  hostile  to  culture,  and  from  a  natural 
enough  motive ;  for  culture  is  the  eternal  opponent  of 
the  two  things  which  are  the  signal  marks  of  Jacobin- 
ism, —  its  fierceness,  and  its  addiction  to  an  abstract 
system.  Culture  is  always  assigning  to  system-makers 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  267 

and  systems  a  smaller  share  in  the  bent  of  human 
destiny  than  their  friends  like.  A  current  in  people's 
minds  sets  towards  new  ideas ;  people  are  dissatisfied 
with  their  old  narrow  stock  of  Philistine  ideas,  Anglo- 
Saxon  ideas,  or  any  other ;  and  some  man,  some  Ben- 
tham  1  or  Comte,  who  has  the  real  merit  of  having  early 
and  strongly  felt  and  helped  the  new  current,  but  who 
brings  plenty  of  narrowness  and  mistakes  of  his  own 
into  his  feeling  and  help  of  it,  is  credited  with  being 
the  author  of  the  whole  current,  the  fit  person  to  be 
entrusted  with  its  regulation  and  to  guide  the  human 
race. 

The  excellent  German  historian  of  the  mythology 
of  Rome,  Preller,^  relating  the  introduction  at  Rome 
under  the  Tarquins  of  the  worship  of  Apollo,  the  god 
of  light,  healing,  and  reconciliation,  will  have  us 
observe  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  Tarquins  who 
brought  to  Rome  the  new  worship  of  Apollo,  as  a 
current  in  the  mind  of  the  Roman  people  which  set 
powerfully  at  that  time  towards  a  new  worship  of  this 
kind,  and  away  from  the  old  run  of  Latin  and  Sabine 
religious  ideas.  In  a  similar  way,  culture  directs  our 
attention  to  the  natural  current  there  is  in  human 
affairs,  and  to  its  continual  working,  and  will  not  let 
us  rivet  our  faith  upon  any  one  man  and  his  doings. 
It  makes  us  see  not  only  his  good  side,  but  also  how 
much  in  him  was  of  necessity  limited  and  transient ; 
nay,  it  even  feels  a  pleasure,  a  sense  of  an  increased 
freedom  and  of  an  ampler  future,  in  so  doing. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  under  the  influence  of  a 
mind  to  which  I  feel  the  greatest  obligations,  the 
mind  of  a  man  who  was  the  very  incarnation  of  sanity 
and  clear  sense,  a  man  the  most  considerable,  it  seems 
to  me,  whom  America  has  yet  produced,  —  Benjamin 
Franklin,  —  I  remember  the  relief  with  which,  after 


268  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

long  feeling  the  sway  of  Franklin's  imperturbable 
common-sense,  I  came  upon  a  project  of  his  for  a  new 
version  of  the  Book  of  Job,^  to  replace  the  old  ver- 
sion, the  style  of  which,  says  Franklin,  has  become 
obsolete,  and  thence  less  agreeable.  "  I  give,"  he 
continues,  "  a  few  verses,  which  may  serve  as  a 
sample  of  the  kind  of  version  I  would  recommend." 
We  all  recollect  the  famous  verse  in  our  translation : 
"  Then  Satan  answered  the  Lord  and  said :  '  Doth 
Job  fear  God  for  nought  ? '  "  Franklin  makes  this : 
"  Does  your  Majesty  imagine  that  Job's  good  conduct 
is  the  effect  of  mere  personal  attachment  and  affec- 
tion ?  "  I  well  remember  how,  when  first  I  read  that, 
I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief  and  said  to  myself : 
"  After  all,  there  is  a  stretch  of  humanity  beyond 
Franklin's  victorious  good  sense  !  "  So,  after  hearing 
Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as  the  renovator  of  modern 
society,  and  Bentham's  mind  and  ideas  proposed  as 
the  rulers  of  our  future,  I  open  the  Deontology?  There 
I  read :  "  While  Xenophon  was  writing  his  history 
and  Euclid  teaching  geometry,  Socrates  and  Plato 
were  talking  nonsense  under  pretense  of  talking  wis- 
dom and  morality.  This  morality  of  theirs  consisted 
in  words ;  this  wisdom  of  theirs  was  the  denial  of 
matters  known  to  every  man's  experience."  From 
the  moment  of  reading  that,  I  am  delivered  from  the 
bondage  of  Bentham !  the  fanaticism  of  his  adherents 
can  touch  me  no  longer.  I  feel  the  inadequacy  of  his 
mind  and  ideas  for  supplying  the  rule  of  human  society, 
for  perfection. 

Culture  tends  alwaj'^s  thus  to  deal  with  the  men  of 
a  system,  of  disciples,  of  a  school;  with  men  like 
Comte,  or  the  late  Mr.  Buckle,^  or  Mr.  Mill.'*  How- 
ever much  it  may  find  to  admire  in  these  personages, 
or  in  some  of  them,  it  nevertheless  remembers  the 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  269 

text :  "  Be  not  ye  called  RaLbi !  "  and  it  soon  passes 
on  from  any  Rabbi,  But  Jacobinism  loves  a  Rabbi ; 
it  does  not  want  to  pass  on  from  its  Rabbi  in  pursuit 
of  a  future  and  still  unreached  perfection  ;  it  wants 
its  Rabbi  and  his  ideas  to  stand  for  perfection,  that 
they  may  with  the  more  authority  recast  the  world ; 
and  for  Jacobinism,  therefore,  culture,  —  eternally 
passing  onwards  and  seeking,  —  is  an  impertinence 
and  an  offence.  But  culture,  just  because  it  resists 
this  tendency  of  Jacobinism  to  impose  on  us  a  man 
with  limitations  and  errors  of  his  own  along  with  the 
true  ideas  of  which  he  is  the  organ,  really  does  the 
world  and  Jacobinism  itself  a  service. 

So,  too.  Jacobinism,  in  its  fierce  hatred  of  the  past 
and  of  those  whom  it  makes  liable  for  the  sins  of  the 
past,  cannot  away  with  the  inexhaustible  indulgence 
proper  to  culture,  the  consideration  of  cii'cumstances, 
the  severe  judgment  of  actions  joined  to  the  merciful 
judgment  of  persons.  "  The  man  of  culture  is  in 
politics,"  cries  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  "one  of  the 
poorest  mortals  alive  !  "  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  wants 
to  be  doing  business,  and  he  complains  that  the  man 
of  culture  stops  him  with  a  "  turn  for  small  fault- 
finding, love  of  selfish  ease,  and  indecision  in  action." 
Of  what  use  is  culture,  he  asks,  except  for  "  a  critic 
of  new  books  or  a  professor  of  belles-lettres  f  "  ^  Why, 
it  is  of  use  because,  in  presence  of  the  fierce  exasper- 
ation which  breathes,  or  rather,  I  may  say,  hisses 
through  the  whole  production  in  which  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  asks  that  question,  it  reminds  us  that  the 
perfection  of  human  nature  is  sweetness  and  light. 
It  is  of  use,  because,  like  religion,  —  that  other  effort 
after  perfection,  —  it  testifies  that,  where  bitter  envy- 
ing and  strife  are,  there  is  confusion  and  every  evil 
work. 


270  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

The  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the  pursuit  of 
sweetness  and  light.  He  who  works  for  sweetness 
and  light,  works  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God 
prevail.  He  who  works  for  machinery,  he  who  works 
for  hatred,  works  only  for  confusion.  Culture  looks 
beyond  machiner}^  culture  hates  hatred ;  culture  has 
one  great  passion,  the  passion  for  sweetness  and  light. 
It  has  one  even  yet  greater  I  —  the  passion  for  making 
them  jJrevail.  It  is  not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  ttTaT 
perfect  man  ;  it  knows  that  the  sweetness  and  light 
of  the  few  must  be  imperfect  until  the  raw  and  un- 
kindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched  with  sweet- 
ness and  light.  If  I  have  not  shrunk  from  saying 
that  we  must  work  for  sweetness  and  light,  so  neither 
have  I  shi'unk  from  saying  that  we  must  have  a  broad 
basis,  must  have  sweetness  and  light  for  as  many  as 
possible.  Again  and  again  I  have  iilsisted  how  those 
are  the  happ}'  moments  of  humanity,  how  those  are 
the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's  life,  how  those  are 
the  flowering  times  for  literature  and  art  and  all  the 
creative  power  of  genius,  when  there  is  a  7iatio>ial  glow 
of  life  and  thought,  when  the  whole  of  society  is  in 
the  fullest  measure  permeated  by  thought,  sensible  to 
beauty,  intelligent  and  alive.  Only  it  must  be  real 
thought  and  real  beauty ;  real  sweetness  and  real 
light.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  give  the  masses, 
as  they  call  them,  an  intellectual  food  prepared  and 
adapted  in  the  way  they  think  proper  for  the  actual 
condition  of  the  masses.  The  ordinary  popular  litera- 
ture is  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on  the 
masses.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  indoctrinate  the 
masses  with  the  set  of  ideas  and  judgments  constitut- 
ing the  creed  of  their  own  profession  or  party.  Our 
religious  and  political  organizations  give  an  example 
of  this  way  of  working  on  the  masses.    I  condemn 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT  271 

neither  way ;  but  culture  works  differently.  It  does 
not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes ; 
it  does  not  try  to  win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its 
own,  with  ready-made  judgments  and  watchwords. 
It  seeks  to  do  away  with  classes ;  to  make  the  best 
that  has  been  thought  and  known  in  the  world  current 
everywhere  ;  to  make  all  men  live  in  an  atmosphere 
of  sweetness  and  light,  where  they  may  use  ideas,  as 
it  uses  them  itself,  freely,  —  nourished,  and  not  bound 
by  them. 

This  is  the  social  idea  ;  and  the  men  of  culture  are 
the  true  apostles  of  equality.  The  great  men  of  cul- 
ture are  those  who  have  had  a  passion  for  diffusing, 
for  making  prevail,  for  carrying  from  one  end  of  so- 
ciety to  the  other,  the  best  knowledge,  the  best  ideas 
of  their  time  ;  who  have  labored  to  divest  knowledge 
of  all  that  was  harsh,  uncouth,  difficult,  abstract, 
professional,  exclusive  ;  to  humanize  it,  to  make  it  ef- 
ficient outside  the  clique  of  the  cultivated  and  learned, 
yet  still  remaining  the  best  knowledge  and  thought  of 
the  time,  and  a  true  source,  therefore,  of  sweetness 
and  light.  Such  a  man  was  Abelard  ^  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  spite  of  all  his  imperfections ;  and  thence 
the  boundless  emotion  and  enthusiasm  which  Abelard 
excited.  Such  were  Lessing^  and  Herder  ^  in  Ger- 
many, at  the  end  of  the  last  century  ;  and  their  serv- 
ices to  Germany  were  in  this  way  inestimably  precious. 
Generations  will  pass,  and  literary  monuments  will 
accumulate,  and  works  far  more  perfect  than  the 
works  of  Lessing  and  Herder  will  be  produced  in 
Germany ;  and  yet  the  names  of  these  two  men  will 
fill  a  German  with  a  reverence  and  enthusiasm  such 
as  the  names  of  the  most  gifted  masters  will  hardly 
awaken.  And  why?  Because  they  humanized  knowl- 
edge ;  because  they  broadened  the  basis  of  life  and 


272  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

intelligence ;  because  they  worked  powerfully  to  dif- 
fuse sweetness  and  liglit,  to  make  reason  and  the  will 
of  God  prevail.  AVith  Saint  Augustine  they  said : 
"  Let  us  not  leave  thee  alone  to  make  in  the  secret 
of  thy  knowledge,  as  thou  didst  before  the  creation  of 
the  firmament,  the  division  of  light  f rcin  darkness ; 
let  the  children  of  thy  spirit,  placed  in  their  firma- 
ment, make  their  light  shine  upon  the  earth,  mark  the 
division  of  night  and  day,  and  annoimce  the  revolu- 
tion of  the  times  ;  for  the  old  order  is  passed,  and  the 
new  arises ;  the  night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come  forth  ; 
and  thou  shalt  crown  the  year  with  thy  blessing,  when 
thou  shalt  send  forth  laborers  into  thy  harvest  sown 
by  other  hands  than  theirs ;  when  thou  shalt  send 
forth  new  laborers  to  new  seed-times,  whereof  the 
harvest  shall  be  not  yet."  ^ 


HEBRAISM  AND   HELLENISM  i 

This  fundamental  ground  is  our  preference  of  doing 
to  thinking.  Now  this  preference  is  a  main  element  in 
our  nature,  and  as  we  study  it  we  find  ourselves  open- 
ing up  a  number  of  large  questions  on  every  side. 

Let  me  go  back  for  a  moment  to  Bishop  Wilson,^ 
who  says  :  "  First,  never  go  against  the  best  light  you 
have  ;  secondly,  take  care  that  your  light  be  not  dark- 
ness." We  show,  as  a  nation,  laudable  energy  and 
persistence  in  walking  according  to  the  best  light  we 
have,  but  are  not  quite  careful  enough,  perhaps,  to 
see  that  our  light  be  not  darkness.  This  is  only  an- 
other version  of  the  old  story  that  energy  is  our  strong 
point  and  favorable  characteristic,  rather  than  intelli- 
gence. But  we  may  give  to  this  idea  a  more  general 
form  still,  in  which  it  will  have  a  yet  larger  range  of 
application.  We  may  regard  this  energy  driving  at 
practice,  this  paramount  sense  of  the  obligation  of 
duty,  self-control,  and  work,  this  earnestness  in  going 
manfully  with  the  best  light  we  have,  as  one  force. 
And  we  may  regard  the  intelligence  driving  at  those 
ideas  which  are,  after  all,. the  basis  of  right  practice, 
the  ardent  sense  for  all  the  new  and  changing  combi- 
nations of  them  which  man's  development  brings  with 
it,  the  indomitable  impulse  to  know  and  adjust  them 
perfectly,  as  another  force.  And  these  two  forces  we 
may  regard  as  in  some  sense  rivals,  —  rivals  not  by 
the  necessity  of  their  own  nature,  but  as  exhibited  in 
man  and  his  history,  —  and  rivals  dividing  the  empire 
of  the  world  between  them.  And  to  give  these  forces 
names  from  the  two  races  of  men  who  have  supplied 


274  IVIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

the  most  signal  and  splendid  manifestations  of  them, 
we  may  call  them  respectively  the  forces  of  Hebraism 
and  Hellenism.  Hebraism  and  Hellenism,  —  between 
these  two  points  of  influence  moves  our  world.  At 
one  time  it  feels  more  powerfully  the  attraction  of  one 
of  them,  at  another  time  of  the  other ;  and  it  ought 
to  be,  though  it  never  is,  evenly  and  happily  balanced 
between  them. 

The  final  aim  of  both  Hellenism  and  Hebraism,  as 
of  all  great  spiritual  disciplines,  is  no  doubt  the  same : 
man's  perfection  or  salvation.  The  very  language  which 
they  both  of  them  use  in  schooling  us  to  reach  this 
aim  is  often  identical.  Even  when  their  language  in- 
dicates by  variation,  —  sometimes  a  broad  variation, 
often  a  but  slight  and  subtle  variation,  —  the  difPer- 
ent  courses  of  thought  which  are  uppermost  in  each 
discipline,  even  then  the  unity  of  the  final  end  and 
aim  is  still  apparent.  To  employ  the  actual  words  of 
that  discipline  with  which  we  ourselves  are  all  of  us 
most  familiar,  and  the  words  of  which,  therefore,  come 
most  home  to  us,  that  final  end  and  aim  is  "  that  we 
might  be  partakers  of  the  divine  nature."  ^  These  are 
the  words  of  a  Hebrew  apostle,  but  of  Hellenism  and 
f  Hebraism  alike  this  is,  I  say,  the  aim.  When  the  two 
I  are  confronted,  as  they  very  often  are  confronted,  it 
[  V  (  is  nearly  always  with  what  I  may  call  a  rhetorical 
A  '  purpose ;  the  speaker's  whole  design  is  to  exalt  and 
enthrone  one  of  the  two,  and  he  uses  the  other  only 
as  a  foil  and  to  enable  him  the  better  to  give  effect  to 
his  purpose.  Obviously,  with  us,  it  is  usually  Hellen- 
ism which  is  thus  reduced  to  minister  to  the  triumph 
of  Hebraism.  There  is  a  sermon  on  Greece  and  the 
Greek  spirit  by  a  man  never  to  be  mentioned  without 
interest  and  respect,  Frederick  Robertson,^  in  which 
this  rhetorical  use  of  Greece  and  the  Greek  spirit, 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  275 

and  the  inadequate  exhibition  of  them  necessarily  con- 
sequent upon  this,  is  ahnost  hidicrous,  and  would  be 
censurable  if  it  were  not  to  be  explained  by  the  exi- 
gencies of  a  sermon.  On  the  other  hand,  Heinrich 
Heine,!  and  other  writers  of  his  sort  give  us  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  tables  completely  turned,  and  of  Hebraism 
brought  in  just  as  a  foil  and  contrast  to  Hellenism, 
and  to  make  the  superiority  of  Hellenism  more  mani- 
fest. In  both  these  cases  there  is  injustice  and  misrejD- 
resentation.  The  aim  and  end  of  both  Hebraism  and 
Hellenism  is,  as  I  have  said,  one  and  the  same,  and 
this  aim  and  end  is  august  and  admirable. 

Still,  they  pursue  this  aim  b}'  very  different  courses. 
The  uppermost  idea  with  Hellenism  is  to  see  things 
as  they  really  are  ;  the  uppermost  idea  with  Hebraism 
is  conduct  and  obedience.  Nothing  can  do  away  with 
this  ineffaceable  difference.  The  Gi^eek  quarrel  with 
the  body  and  its  desires  is,  that  they  hinder  right 
thinking ;  the  Hebrew  quarrel  with  them  is,  that  they 
hinder  right  acting.  "  He  that  keepeth  the  law,  happy 
is  he  "  ;  2  u  Blessed  is  the  man  that  feareth  the  Eternal, 
that  delighteth  greatly  in  his  commandments";  —  ^ 
that  is  the  Hebrew  notion  of  felicity  ;  and,  pursued 
with  passion  and  tenacity,  this  notion  would  not  let 
the  Hebrew  rest  till,  as  is  well  known,  he  had  at  last 
got  out  of  the  law  a  network  of  prescriptions  to  en- 
wrap his  whole  life,  to  govern  every  moment  of  it,  every 
impulse,  every  action.  The  Greek  notion  of  felicity, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  perfectly  conveyed  in  these  words 
of  a  great  French  moralist :  "  Cest  le  honheur  des 
hommes" — when?  when  they  abhor  that  which  is 
evil? — no;  when  they  exercise  themselves  in  the  law 
of  the  Lord  day  and  night  ?  —  no ;  when  they  die 
daily?  —  no;  when  they  walk  about  the  New  Jerusa- 
lem with  palms  in  their  hands  ?  —  no ;  but  when  they 


276  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

think  aright,  when  their  thought  hits :  "  qiiand  Us 
petisent  juste.'^  At  the  bottom  of  both  the  Greek  and 
the  Hebrew  notion  is  the  desire,  native  in  man,  for 
reason  and  the  will  of  God,  the  feeling  after  the  uni- 
versal order,  —  in  a  word,  the  love  of  God.  But,  while 
Hebraism  seizes  upon  certain  plain,  capital  intimations 
of  the  iiniversal  order,  and  rivets  itself,  one  may  say, 
with  unequalled  grandeur  of  earnestness  and  intensity 
on  the  study  and  observance  of  them,  the  bent  of  Hel- 
lenism is  to  follow,  with  flexible  activity,  the  whole 
play  of  the  universal  order,  to  be  apprehensive  of  miss- 
ing any  part  of  it,  of  sacrificing  one  part  to  another, 
to  slip  away  from  resting  in  this  or  that  intimation  of 
it,  however  capital.  An  unclouded  clearness  of  mind, 
an  unimpeded  play  of  thought,  is  what  this  bent  drives 
at.  The  governing  idea  of  Hellenism  is  spontaneity 
of  consciousness ;  that  of  Hebraism,  strictness  of 
conscience. 

Clu'istianity  changed  nothing  in  this  essential  bent 
of  Hebraism  to  set  doing  above  knowing.  Self-con- 
quest, self-devotion,  the  following  not  our  own  individ- 
ual will,  but  the  will  of  God,  oheclience^  is  the  funda- 
mental idea  of  this  form,  also,  of  the  discipline  to  which 
we  have  attached  the  general  name  of  Hebraism.  Only, 
as  the  old  law  and  the  network  of  prescriptions  with 
which  it  enveloped  human  life  were  evidently  a  motive- 
power  not  driving  and  searching  enough  to  produce 
the  result  aimed  at, — patient  continuance  in  well-do- 
ing, self -conquest,  —  Christianity  substituted  for  them 
boundless  devotion  to  that  inspiring  and  affecting  pat- 
tern of  self -conquest  offered  by  Jesus  Christ ;  and  by 
the  new  motive-power,  of  which  the  essence  was  this, 
thousrh  the  love  and  admiration  of  Christian  churches 
have  for  centuries  been  emploj-ed  in  A^arying,  amplify- 
ing, and  adorning  the  plain  description  of  it,  Chris- 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  277 

tianity,  as  St.  Paul  truly  says,  "  establishes  tlie  law,"  ^ 
and  in  the  strength  of  the  ampler  power  which  she 
has  thus  supplied  to  fulfill  it,  has  accomplished  the 
miracles,  which  we  all  see,  of  her  history. 

So  long  as  we  do  not  forget  that  both  Hellenism 
and  Hebraism  are  profound  and  admirable  manifesta- 
tions of  man's  life,  tendencies,  and  powers,  and  that 
both  of  them  aim  at  a  like  final  result,  we  can  hardly 
insist  too  strongly  on  the  divergence  of  line  and  of 
operation  with  which  they  proceed.  It  is  a  divergence 
so  great  that  it  most  truly,  as  the  prophet  Zechariah 
says,  "  has  raised  up  thy  sons,  O  Zion,  against  thy 
sons,  O  Greece  !  "  ^  The  difference  whether  it  is  by 
doing  or  by  knowing  that  we  set  most  store,  and  the 
practical  consequences  which  follow  from  this  differ- 
ence, leave  their  mark  on  all  the  history  of  our  race 
and  of  its  development.  Language  may  be  abundantly 
quoted  from  both  Hellenism  and  Hebraism  to  make  it 
seem  that  one  follows  the  same  current  as  the  other 
towards  the  same  goal.  They  are,  truly,  borne  towards 
the  same  goal ;  but  the  currents  which  bear  them  are 
infinitely  different.  It  is  true,  Solomon  will  praise 
knowing :  "  Understanding  is  a  well-spring  of  life  unto 
him  that  hath  it."  ^  And  in  the  New  Testament,  again, 
Jesus  Christ  is  a  "  light,"  *  and  "  truth  makes  us  free."  ^ 
It  is  true,  Aristotle  will  undervalue  knowing :  "  In 
what  concerns  virtue,"  says  he,  "  three  things  are  nec- 
essary —  knowledge,  deliberate  will,  and  perseverance  ; 
but,  whereas  the  two  last  are  all-important,  the  first 
is  a  matter  of  little  importance."  ^  It  is  true  that  with 
the  same  impatience  with  which  St.  James  enjoins  a 
man  to  be  not  a  forgetful  hearer,  but  a  doer  of  the 
work,  "*  Epictetus  ^  exhorts  us  to  do  what  we  have 
demonstrated  to  ourselves  we  ought  to  do  ;  or  he  taunts 
us  with  futility,  for  being  armed  at  all  points  to  prove 


278  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

that  lying  is  wrong,  yet  all  the  time  continuing  to  lie. 
It  is  true,  Plato,  in  words  which  are  almost  the  words 
of  the  New  Testament  or  the  Imitation,  calls  life  a 
learning  to  die.^  But  underneath  the  superficial  agree- 
ment the  fundamental  divergence  still  subsists.  The 
understanding  of  Solomon  is  "  the  walking  in  the  way 
of  the  commandments  "  ;  this  is  "  the  way  of  peace,"  and 
it  is  of  this  that  blessedness  comes.  In  the  New  Tes- 
tament, the  truth  which  gives  us  the  peace  of  God  and 
makes  us  free,  is  the  love  of  Christ  constraining  us^  to 
crucify,  as  he  did,  and  with  a  like  purpose  of  moral 
regeneration,  the  flesh  with  its  affections  and  lusts, 
and  thus  establishing,  as  we  have  seen,  the  law.  The 
moral  virtues,  on  the  other  hand,  are  with  Aristotle 
but  the  porch  ^  and  access  to  the  intellectual,  and  with 
these  last  is  blessedness.  That  partaking  of  the  divine 
life,  which  both  Hellenism  and  Hebraism,  as  we  have 
said,  fix  as  their  crowning  aim,  Plato  expressly  denies 
to  the  man  of  practical  virtue  merely,  of  self-conquest 
with  any  other  motive  than  that  of  perfect  intellec- 
tual vision.  He  reserves  it  for  the  lover  of  pure  knowl- 
edge, of  seeing  things  as  they  really  are,  —  the  (f)i\o- 

Both  Hellenism  and  Hebraism  arise  out  of  the 
wants  of  human  nature,  and  address  themselves  to 
satisfying  those  wants.  But  their  methods  are  so  dif- 
ferent, they  lay  stress  on  such  different  points,  and 
call  into  being  by  their  respective  disciplines  such  dif- 
ferent activities,  that  the  face  which  human  nature 
presents  when  it  passes  from  the  hands  of  one  of  them 
to  those  of  the  other,  is  no  longer  the  same.  To  get 
rid  of  one's  ignorance,  to  see  things  as  they  are,  and 
by  seeing  them  as  they  are  to  see  them  in  their  beauty, 
is  the  simple  and  attractive  ideal  which  Hellenism 
holds  out  before  human  nature ;  and  from  the  sim- 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  279 

pliclty  and  charm  of  this  ideal,  Hellenism,  and  human 
life  in  the  hands  of  Hellenism,  is  invested  with  a  kind 
of  aerial  ease,  clearness,  and  radiancy ;  they  are  full 
of  what  we  call  sweetness  and  light.  Difficulties  are 
kept  out  of  view,  and  the  beauty  and  ration alness  of 
the  ideal  have  all  our  thoughts.  "  The  best  man  is  he 
who  most  tries  to  perfect  himself,  and  the  happiest 
man  is  he  who  most  feels  that  he  is  perfecting  him- 
self," 1  —  this  account  of  the  matter  by  Socrates,  the 
true  Socrates  of  the  Memorabilia,  has  something  so 
simple,  spontaneous,  and  unsophisticated  about  it,  that 
it  seems  to  fill  us  with  clearness  and  hope  when  we 
hear  it.  But  there  is  a  saying  which  I  have  heard  at- 
tributed to  Mr.  Carlyle  about  Socrates  —  a  very  happy 
saying,  whether  it  is  really  Mr.  Carlyle's  or  not,  — 
which  excellently  marks  the  essential  point  in  which 
Hebraism  differs  from  Hellenism.  "  Socrates,"  this 
saying  goes,  "  is  terribly  at  ease  in  Zioii."  Hebraism 
—  and  here  is  the  source  of  its  wonderful  strength  — 
has  always  been  severely  preoccupied  with  an  awful 
sense  of  the  impossibility  of  being  at  ease  in  Zion  ;  of 
the  difficulties  which  oppose  themselves  to  man's  pur- 
suit or  attainment  of  that  perfection  of  which  Socrates 
talks  so  hopefully,  and,  as  from  this  point  of  view  one 
might  almost  say,  so  glibly.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk 
of  getting  rid  of  one's  ignorance,  of  seeing  things  in 
their  reality,  seeing  them  in  their  beauty ;  but  how  is 
this  to  be  done  when  there  is  something  which  thwarts 
and  spoils  all  our  efforts  ? 

This  something  is  sin  ;  and  the  space  which  sin  fills 
in  Hebraism,  as  compared  with  Hellenism,  is  indeed 
prodigious.  This  obstacle  to  perfection  fills  the  whole 
scene,  and  perfection  appears  remote  and  rising  awaj^ 
from  earth,  in  the  background.  Under  the  name  of 
sin,  the  difficulties  of  knowing  oneself  and  conquering 


280  I^L\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

oneself  which  impede  man's  passage  to  perfection, 
become,  for  Hebraism,  a  positive,  active  entity  hostile 
to  man,  a  mj'sterious  power  which  I  heard  Dr.  Pusey  i 
the  other  day,  in  one  of  his  impressive  sermons,  com- 
pare to  a  hideous  hunchback  seated  on  our  shoulders, 
and  which  it  is  the  main  business  of  our  lives  to  hate 
and  oppose.  The  discipline  of  the  Old  Testament  may 
be  summed  up  as  a  discipline  teaching  us  to  abhor 
and  flee  from  sin  ;  the  discipline  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, as  a  discipline  teaching  us  to  die  to  it.  As  Hel- 
lenism speaks  of  thinking  clearly,  seeing  things  in 
their  essence  and  beauty,  as  a  grand  and  precious  feat 
for  man  to  achieve,  so  Hebraism  speaks  of  becoming 
conscious  of  sin,  of  awakening  to  a  sense  of  sin,  as  a 
feat  of  this  kind.  It  is  obvious  to  what  wide  divergence 
these  differing  tendencies,  aetiveh'  followed,  must  lead. 
As  one  passes  and  repasses  from  Hellenism  to  Hebra- 
ism, from  Plato  to  St.  Paul,  one  feels  inclined  to  rub 
one's  eyes  and  ask  oneself  whether  man  is  indeed  a 
gentle  and  simple  being,  showing  the  traces  of  a  noble 
and  divine  nature ;  or  an  unhappy  chained  captive, 
laboring  with  groanings  that  cannot  be  uttered  to  free 
himself  from  the  body  of  this  death. 

Apparently  it  was  the  Hellenic  conception  of  hu- 
man nature  which  was  unsound,  for  the  world  coiild 
not  live  by  it.  Absolutely  to  call  it  unsound,  however, 
is  to  fall  into  the  common  error  of  its  Hebraizing  ene- 
mies ;  but  it  was  unsound  at  that  particular  moment 
of  man's  development,  it  was  premature.  The  indis- 
pensable basis  of  conduct  and  self-control,  the  plat- 
form upon  which  alone  the  perfection  aimed  at  by 
Greece  can  come  into  bloom,  was  not  to  be  reached 
by  our  race  so  easil}^ ;  centuries  of  probation  and  dis- 
cipline were  needed  to  bring  us  to  it.  Therefore  the 
bright   promise  of   Hellenism   faded,  and  Hebraism 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  281 

ruled  the  world.  Then  was  seen  that  astonishing  spec- 
tacle, so  well  marked  by  the  often-qnoted  words  of  the 
prophet  Zechariah,  when  men  of  all  languages  and 
nations  took  hold  of  the  skirt  of  him  that  was  a  Jew, 
saying:  —  "  We  will  go  with  you,  for  we  have  heard 
that  God  is  with  you."  ^  And  the  Hebraism  which 
thus  received  and  ruled  a  world  all  gone  out  of  the 
way  and  altogether  become  unprofitable,  was,  and 
could  not  but  be,  the  later,  the  more  spiritual,  the 
more  attractive  development  of  Hebraism.  It  was 
Christianity  ;  that  is  to  say,  Hebraism  aiming  at  self- 
conquest  and  rescue  from  the  thrall  of  vile  affections, 
not  by  obedience  to  the  letter  of  a  law,  but  by  con- 
formity to  the  image  of  a  self-sacrificing  example.  To 
a  world  stricken  with  moral  enervation  Christianity 
offered  its  spe(;tacle  of  an  inspired  self-sacrifice ;  to 
men  who  refused  themselves  nothing,  it  showed  one 
who  refused  himself  everything ;  —  '•'■my  Saviour  ba7i- 
ishedjoy/"^  says  George  Herbert.  When  the  aZ^n a 
Venus,  the  life-giving  and  joy-giving  power  of  nature, 
so  fondly  cherished  by  the  pagan  world,  could  not  save 
her  followers  from  self-dissatisfaction  and  ennui,  the 
severe  words  of  the  apostle  came  bracingly  and  re- 
freshingly :  "  Let  no  man  deceive  you  with  vain  words, 
for  because  of  these  things  cometh  the  wrath  of  God 
upon  the  children  of  disobedience."  ^  Through  age 
after  age  and  generation  after  generation,  our  race,  or 
all  that  part  of  our  race  which  was  most  living  and  pro- 
gressive, was  baptized  into  a  death;  and  endeavored, 
by  suffering  in  the  flesh,  to  cease  from  sin.  Of  this 
endeavor,  the  animating  labors  and  afflictions  of  early 
Christianity,  the  touching  asceticism  of  mediaeval 
Christianity,  are  the  great  historical  manifestations. 
Literary  monuments  of  it,  each  in  its  own  way  incom- 
parable, remain  in  the  Bjnstles  of  St.  Paul,  in  St. 


282  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Augustine's  Confessions^  and  in  the  two  original  and 
simplest  books  of  the  Imitation.^ 

Of  two  disciplines  laying  their  main  stress,  the  one, 
on  clear  intelligence,  the  other,  on  firm  obedience ;  the 
one,  on  comprehensively  knowing  the  ground  of  one's 
duty,  the  other,  on  diligently  practising  it ;  the  one,  on 
taking  all  possible  care  (to  use  Bishop  Wilson's  words 
again)  that  the  light  we  have  be  not  darkness,  the 
other,  that  according  to  the  best  light  we  have  we 
diligently  walk,  —  the  priority  naturally  belongs  to 
that  discipline  which  braces  all  man's  moral  powers, 
and  founds  for  him  an  indispensable  basis  of  charac- 
ter. And,  therefore,  it  is  justly  said  of  the  Jewish  peo- 
ple, who  were  charged  with  setting  powerfully  forth 
that  side  of  the  divine  order  to  which  the  words  con- 
science and  self-conquest  point,  that  they  were  "  en- 
trusted with  the  oracles  of  God  "  ;2  as  it  is  justly  said 
of  Christianity,  which  followed  Judaism  and  which  set 
forth  this  side  with  a  much  deeper  effectiveness  and 
a  much  wider  influence,  that  the  wisdom  of  the  old 
pagan  world  was  foolishness^  compared  to  it.  No 
words  of  devotion  and  admiration  can  be  too  strong  to 
render  thanks  to  these  beneficent  forces  which  have 
so  borne  forward  huujanity  in  its  appointed  work  of 
coming  to  the  knowledge  and  possession  of  itself ; 
above  all,  in  those  great  moments  when  their  action 
was  the  wholesomest  and  the  most  necessary. 

But^the  evolution  of  these  forces,  separately  and  in 
themselves,  is  not  the  whole  evolution  of  humanity,  — 
their  single  history  is  not  the  whole  history  of  man  ; 
whereas  their  admirers  are  always  apt  to  make  it  stand 
for  the  whole  history.  Hebraism  and  Hellenism  are, 
neither  of  them,  the  law  of  human  development,  as 
their  admirers  are  prone  to  make  them  ;  they  are, 
each  of  them,  contributions  to  human  development,  — 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  2S3 

august  contributions,  invaluable  contributions ;  and 
each  showing  itself  to  us  more  august,  more  invalu- 
able, more  preponderant  over  the  other,  according  to 
the  moment  in  which  we  take  them,  and  the  relation 
in  which  we  stand  to  them.  The  nations  of  our  modern 
world,  children  of  that  immense  and  salutary  move- 
ment which  broke  up  the  pagan  world,  inevitably  stand 
to  Hellenism  in  a  relation  which  dwarfs  it,  and  to 
Hebraism  in  a  relation  which  magnifies  it.  They  are 
inevitably  prone  to  take  Hebraism  as  the  law  of  human 
development,  and  not  as  simply  a  contribution  to  it, 
however  precious.  And  yet  the  lesson  must  perforce  be 
learned,  that  the  human  spirit  is  wider  than  the  most 
priceless  of  the  forces  which  bear  it  onward,  and  that 
to  the  whole  development  of  man  Hebraism  itself  is, 
like  Hellenism,  but  a  contribution. 

Perhaps  we  may  help  ourselves  to  see  this  clearer  by 
an  illustration  drawn  from  the  treatment  of  a  single 
great  idea  which  has  profoundly  engaged  the  human 
spirit,  and  has  given  it  eminent  opportunities  for  show- 
ing its  nobleness  and  energy.  It  surely  must  be  per- 
ceived that  the  idea  of  immortality,  as  this  idea  rises 
in  its  generality  before  the  human  spirit,  is  something 
grander,  truer,  and  more  satisfying,  than  it  is  in  the 
particular  forms  by  which  St.  Paul,  in  the  famous  fif- 
teenth chapter  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  and 
Plato,  in  the  PJio&do}  endeavor  to  develop  and  estab- 
lish it.  Surely  we  cannot  but  feel,  that  the  argumen- 
tation with  which  the  Hebrew  apostle  goes  about  to 
expound  this  great  idea  is,  after  all,  confused  and  in- 
conclusive ;  and  that  the  reasoning,  drawn  from  anal- 
ogies of  likeness  and  equality,  which  is  employed  upon 
it  by  the  Greek  philosopher,  is  over-subtle  and  sterile. 
Above  and  beyond  the  inadequate  solutions  which  He- 
braism and  Hellenism  here  attempt,  extends  the  im- 


284  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

mense  and  angiist  problem  itself,  and  the  human  spirit 
which  gave  birth  to  it.  And  this  single  illustration  may 
suggest  to  us  how  the  same  thing  happens  in  other 
cases  also. 

But  meanwhile,  by  alternations  of  Hebraism  and 
Hellenism,  of  a  man's  intellectual  and  moral  impulses, 
of  the  effort  to  see  things  as  they  really  are,  and  the 
effort  to  win  peace  by  self-conquest,  the  human  spirit 
proceeds ;  and  each  of  these  two  forces  has  its  ap- 
pointed hours  of  culmination  and  seasons  of  ride.  As 
the  great  movement  of  Christianity  was  a  triumph  of 
Hebraism  and  man's  moral  impidses,  so  the  great 
movement  which  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Renascence  ^ 
was  an  uprising  and  reinstatement  of  man's  intellectual 
impulses  and  of  Hellenism.  We  in  England,  the  de- 
voted children  of  Protestantism,  chiefly  know  the  Re- 
nascence by  its  subordinate  and  secondary  side  of  the 
Reformation.  The  Reformation  has  been  often  called 
a  Hebraizing  revival,  a  return  to  the  ardor  and  sin- 
cereness  of  primitive  Christianity.  No  one,  however, 
can  study  the  development  of  Protestantism  and  of 
Protestant  churches  without  feeling  that  into  the  Re- 
formation, too,  —  Hebraizing  child  of  the  Renascence 
and  offspring  of  its  fervor,  rather  than  its  intelligence, 
as  it  undoubtedly  was,  —  the  subtle  Hellenic  leaven  of 
the  Renascence  found  its  way,  and  that  the  exact  re- 
spective parts,  in  the  Reformation,  of  Hebraism  and  of 
Hellenism,  are  not  easy  to  separate.  But  what  we  may 
with  truth  say  is,  that  all  which  Protestantism  was  to 
itself  clearly  conscious  of,  all  which  it  succeeded  in 
clearly  setting  forth  in  words,  had  the  characters  of 
Hebraism  rather  than  of  Hellenism.  The  Reformation 
was  strong,  in  that  it  was  an  earnest  return  to  the 
Bible  and  to  doing  from  the  heart  the  will  of  God  as 
there  written.  It  was  weak,  in  that  it  never  consciously 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  285 

grasped  or  applied  the  central  idea  of  the  Renascence, 
—  the  Hellenic  idea  of  pursuing,  in  all  lines  of  activ- 
ity, the  law  and  science,  to  use  Plato's  words,  of  things 
as  they  really  are.  Whatever  direct  superiority,  there- 
fore, Protestantism  had  over  Catholicism  was  a  moral 
superiority,  a  superiority  arising  out  of  its  greater  sin- 
cerity and  earnestness,  —  at  the  moment  of  its  appari- 
tion at  any  rate,  —  in  dealing  with  the  heart  and  con- 
science. Its  pretensions  to  an  intellectual  superiority 
are  in  general  quite  illusory.  For  Hellenism,  for  the 
thinking  side  in  man  as  distinguished  from  the  acting 
side,  the  attitude  of  mind  of  Protestantism  towards 
the  Bible  in  no  respect  differs  from  the  attitude  of 
mind  of  Catholicism  towards  the  Church.  The  mental 
habit  of  him  who  imagines  that  Balaam's  ass  spoke,  in 
no  respect  differs  from  the  mental  habit  of  him  who 
imagines  that  a  Madonna  of  wood  or  stone  winked ; 
and  the  one,  who  says  that  God's  Church  makes  him 
believe  what  he  believes,  and  the  other,  who  says  that 
God's  Word  makes  him  believe  what  he  believes,  are 
for  the  philosopher  perfectly  alike  in  not  really  and 
truly  knowing,  when  they  say  God's  Church  and  God's 
Word,  what  it  is  they  say,  or  whereof  they  affirm. 

In  the  sixteenth  century,  therefore,  Hellenism  re- 
entered the  world,  and  again  stood  in  presence  of 
Hebraism,  —  a  Hebraism  renewed  and  purged.  Now, 
it  has  not  been  enough  observed,  how,  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  a  fate  befell  Hellenism  in  some  respects 
analogous  to  that  which  befell  it  at  the  commencement 
of  our  era.  The  Renascence,  that  great  reawakening  of 
Hellenism,  that  irresistible  return  of  humanity  to  na- 
ture and  to  seeing  things  as  they  are,  which  in  art,  in 
literature,  and  in  physics,  produced  such  splendid 
fruits,  had,  like  the  anterior  Hellenism  of  the  pagan 
world,  a  side  of  moral  weakness  and  of  relaxation  or 


286  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

insensibility  of  the  moral  fibre,  which  in  Italy  showed 
itself  with  the  most  startling  plainness,  but  which  in 
Fi-ance,  England,  and  other  countries  was  very  ap- 
parent, too.  Again  this  loss  of  spiritual  balance,  this 
exclusive  preponderance  given  to  man's  perceiving  and 
knowing  side,  this  unnatural  defect  of  his  feeling  and 
acting  side,  provoked  a  reaction.  Let  us  trace  that 
reaction  where  it  most  nearly  concerns  us. 

Science  has  now  made  visible  to  everybody  the  great 
and  pregnant  elements  of  difference  which  lie  in  race, 
and  in  how  signal  a  manner  they  make  the  genius  and 
history  of  an  Indo-European  jjeople  vary  from  those 
of  a  Semitic  people.  Hellenism  is  of  Indo-European 
growth,  Hebraism  is  of  Semitic  growth ;  and  we  Eng- 
lish, a  nation  of  Indo-European  stock,  seem  to  belong 
naturally  to  the  movement  of  Hellenism.  But  nothing 
more  strongly  marks  the  essential  unity  of  man,  than 
the  affinities  we  can  perceive,  in  this  point  or  that, 
between  members  of  one  family  of  peoples  and  mem- 
bers of  another.  And  no  affinity  of  this  kind  is  more 
strongly  marked  than  that  likeness  in  the  strength  and 
prominence  of  the  moral  fibre,  which,  notwithstanding 
immense  elements  of  difference,  knits  in  some  special 
sort  the  genius  and  history  of  us  English,  and  our 
American  descendants  across  the  Atlantic,  to  the  genius 
and  history  of  the  Hebrew  people.  Puritanism,  which 
has  been  so  great  a  power  in  the  English  nation,  and 
in  the  strongest  part  of  the  English  nation,  was  origi- 
nally the  reaction  in  the  seventeenth  century  of  the  con- 
science and  moral  sense  of  our  race,  against  the  moral 
indifference  and  lax  rule  of  conduct  which  in  the  six- 
teenth century  came  in  with  the  Renascence.  It  was  a 
reaction  of  Hebraism  against  Hellenism  ;  and  it  power- 
fully manifested  itself,  as  was  natural,  in  a  people  with 
much  of  what  we  call  a  Hebraizing  turn,  with  a  signal 


HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM  287 

afi&nity  for  the  bent  which  was  the  master-bent  of  He- 
brew life.  Eminently  Indo-Euroi3ean  by  its  humor, 
by  the  power  it  shows,  through  this  gift,  of  imagina- 
tively acknowledging  the  multiform  aspects  of  the 
problem  of  life,  and  of  thus  getting  itself  unfixed  from 
its  own  over-certainty,  of  smiling  at  its  own  over- 
tenacity,  our  race  has  yet  (and  a  great  part  of  its 
strength  lies  here),  in  matters  of  practical  life  and 
moral  conduct,  a  strong  share  of  the  assuredness,  the 
tenacity,  the  intensity  of  the  Hebrews.  This  turn  man- 
ifested itself  in  Puritanism,  and  has  had  a  great  part 
in  shaping  our  history  for  the  last  two  hundred  years. 
Undoubtedly  it  checked  and  changed  amongst  us  that 
movement  of  the  Renascence  which  we  see  producing 
in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  such  wonderful  fruits.  Un- 
doubtedly it  stopped  the  prominent  rule  and  direct 
development  of  that  order  of  ideas  which  we  call  by 
the  name  of  Hellenism,  and  gave  the  first  rank  to  a 
different  order  of  ideas.  Apparently,  too,  as  we  said 
of  the  former  defeat  of  Hellenism,  if  Hellenism  was 
defeated,  this  shows  that  Hellenism  was  imperfect, 
and  that  its  ascendency  at  that  moment  would  not 
have  been  for  the  world's  good. 

Yet  there  is  a  very  important  difference  between 
the  defeat  inflicted  on  Hellenism  by  Christianity  eight- 
een hundred  years  ago,  and  the  check  given  to  the 
Renascence  by  Puritanism.  The  greatness  of  the  dif- 
ference is  well  measured  by  the  difference  in  force, 
beauty,  significance,  and  usefulness,  between  primitive 
Christianity  and  Protestantism.  Eighteen  hundred 
years  ago  it  was  altogether  the  hour  of  Hebraism. 
Primitive  Christianity  was  legitimately  and  truly  the 
ascendant  force  in  the  world  at  that  time,  and  the  way 
of  mankind's  progress  lay  through  its  full  develop- 
ment. Another  hour  in  man's  development  began  in 


288  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  main  road  of  his  progress 
tlien  lay  for  a  time  through  Hellenism.  Puritanism 
was  no  longer  the  central  current  of  the  world's  prog- 
ress, it  was  a  side  stream  crossing  the  central  current 
and  checking  it.  The  cross  and  the  check  may  have 
been  necessary  and  salutary,  but  that  does  not  do  away 
with  the  essential  difference  between  the  main  stream 
of  man's  advance  and  a  cross  or  side  stream.  For  more 
than  two  hundred  years  the  main  stream  of  man's 
advance  has  moved  towards  knowing  himself  and  the 
world,  seeing  things  as  they  are,  spontaneity  of  con- 
sciousness ;  the  main  impulse  of  a  great  part,  and  that 
the  strongest  part,  of  our  nation  has  been  towards 
strictness  of  conscience.  They  have  made  the  secondary 
the  principal  at  the  wrong  moment,  and  the  principal 
they  have  at  the  wrong  moment  treated  as  secondary. 
This  contravention  of  the  natural  order  has  produced, 
as  such  contravention  always  must  produce,  a  certain 
confusion  and  false  movement,  of  which  we  are  now 
beginning  to  feel,  in  almost  every  direction,  the  in- 
convenience. In  all  directions  our  habitual  causes  of 
action  seem  to  be  losing  efficaciousness,  credit,  and  con- 
trol, both  with  others  and  even  with  ourselves.  Every- 
where we  see  the  beginnings  of  confusion,  and  we  want 
a  clue  to  some  sound  order  and  authority.  This  we  can 
only  get  by  going  back  upon  the  actual  instincts  and 
forces  which  ride  our  life,  seeing  them  as  they  really 
are,  connecting  them  with  other  instincts  and  forces, 
and  enlarging  our  whole  view  and  rule  of  life. 


EQUALITY  1 

When  we  talk  of  man's  advance  towards  his  full 
humanity,  we  think  of  an  advance,  not  along  one  line 
only,  but  several.  Certain  races  and  nations,  as  we 
know,  are  on  certain  lines  preeminent  and  represent- 
ative. The  Hebrew  nation  was  preeminent  on  one 
great  line.  "  What  nation,"  it  was  justly  asked  by 
their  lawgiver,  "  hath  statutes  and  judgments  so  right- 
eous as  the  law  which  I  set  before  you  this  day  ?  Keep 
therefore  and  do  them  ;  for  this  is  your  wisdom  and 
your  understanding  in  the  sight  of  the  nations  which 
shall  hear  all  these  statutes  and  say  :  Surely  this  great 
nation  is  a  wise  and  understanding  people ! "  The 
Hellenic  race  was  preeminent  on  other  lines.  Isoc- 
rates^  could  say  of  Athens:  "Our  city  has  left  the 
rest  of  the  world  so  far  behind  in  philosophy  and  elo- 
quence, that  those  educated  by  Athens  have  become  the 
teachers  of  the  rest  of  mankind ;  and  so  well  has  she 
done  her  part,  that  the  name  of  Greeks  seems  no  longer 
to  stand  for  a  race  but  to  stand  for  intelligence  itself, 
and  they  who  share  in  our  culture  are  called  Greeks 
even  before  those  who  are  merely  of  our  own  blood." 
The  power  of  intellect  and  science,  the  power  of  beauty, 
the  power  of  social  life  and  manners,  —  these  are  what 
Greece  so  felt,  and  fixed,  and  may  stand  for.  They  are 
great  elements  in  our  humanization.  The  power  of 
conduct  is  another  great  element ;  and  this  was  so  felt 
and  fixed  by  Israel  that  we  can  never  with  justice 
refuse  to  permit  Israel,  in  spite  of  all  his  shortcom- 
ings, to  stand  for  it. 

So  you  see  that  in  being  humanized  we  have  to  move 


290  AL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

along  several  lines,  and  that  on  certain  lines  certain 
nations  find  their  strength  and  take  a  lead.  AVe  may 
elucidate  the  thing  yet  further.  Nations  now  existing 
may  be  said  to  feel  or  to  have  felt  the  power  of  this 
or  that  element  in  our  humanization  so  signally  that 
they  are  characterized  by  it.  No  one  who  knows  this 
country  would  deny  that  it  is  characterized,  in  a  re- 
markable degree,  by  a  sense  of  the  power  of  conduct. 
Our  feeling  for  religion  is  one  part  of  this ;  our  in- 
dustry is  another.  What  foreigners  so  much  remark 
in  us  —  our  public  spirit,  our  love,  amidst  all  our  lib- 
erty, for  public  order  and  for  stability  —  are  parts  of 
it  too.  Then  the  power  of  beauty  was  so  felt  by  the 
Italians  that  their  art  revived,  as  we  know,  the  almost 
lost  idea  of  beauty,  and  the  serious  and  successful  pur- 
suit of  it.  Cardinal  Antonelli,^  speaking  to  me  about 
the  education  of  the  common  people  in  Rome,  said 
that  they  were  illiterate,  indeed,  but  whoever  mingled 
with  them  at  any  public  show,  and  heard  them  pass 
judgment  on  the  beauty  or  ugliness  of  what  came  be- 
fore them,  —  "  e  bi'iitto"  "  e  hello,''''  —  would  find  that 
their  judgment  agreed  admirably,  in  general,  with 
just  what  the  most  cultivated  people  would  say.  Even 
at  the  present  time,  then,  the  Italians  are  preeminent 
in  feeling  the  power  of  beauty.  The  power  of  knowl- 
edge, in  the  same  way,  is  eminently  an  influence  with 
the  Germans.  This  by  no  means  implies,  as  is  some- 
times supposed,  a  high  and  fine  general  culture.  What 
it  implies  is  a  strong  sense  of  the  necessity  of  knowing 
scientifically,  as  the  expression  is,  the  things  which 
have  to  be  known  by  us  ;  of  knowing  them  systemat- 
ically, by  the  regular  and  right  process,  and  in  the  only 
real  way.  And  this  sense  the  Germans  especially 
have.  Finally,  there  is  the  power  of  social  life  and 
manners.  And  even  the  Athenians  themselves,  per- 


EQUALITY  291 

haps,  have  hardly  felt  this  power  so  much  as  the 
French. 

Voltaire,  in  a  famous  passage  ^  where  he  extols  the 
age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  and  ranks  it  with  the 
chief  epochs  in  the  civilization  of  our  race,  has  to 
specify  the  gift  bestowed  on  us  by  the  age  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth,  as  the  age  of  Pericles,  for  instance,  be- 
stowed on  us  its  art  and  literature,  and  the  Italian  Re- 
nascence its  revival  of  art  and  literature.  And  Voltaire 
shows  all  his  acuteness  in  fixing  on  the  gift  to  name. 
It  is  not  the  sort  of  gift  which  we  expect  to  see  named. 
The  great  gift  of  the  age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  to 
the  world,  says  Voltaire,  was  this :  V esprit  de  societe, 
the  spirit  of  society,  the  social  spirit.  And  another 
French  writer,  looking  for  the  good  points  in  the  old 
French  nobility,  remarks  that  this  at  any  rate  is  to  be 
said  in  their  favor:  they  established  a  high  and  charm- 
ing ideal  of  social  intercourse  and  manners,  for  a  na- 
tion formed  to  profit  by  such  an  ideal,  and  which  has 
profited  by  it  ever  since.  And  in  America,  perhaps, 
we  see  the  disadvantages  of  having  social  equality  be- 
fore there  has  been  any  such  high  standard  of  social 
life  and  manners  formed. 

We  are  not  disposed  in  England,  most  of  us,  to  at- 
tach all  this  importance  to  social  intercourse  and  man- 
ners. Yet  Burke  says  :  "  There  ought  to  be  a  system 
of  manners  in  every  nation  which  a  well-formed  mind 
would  be  disposed  to  relish."  And  the  power  of  social 
life  and  manners  is  truly,  as  we  have  seen,  one  of  the 
great  elements  in  our  humanization.  Unless  we  have 
cultivated  it,  we  are  incomplete.  The  impulse  for  cul- 
tivating it  is  not,  indeed,  a  moral  impulse.  It  is  by  no 
means  identical  with  the  moral  impulse  to  help  our 
neighbor  and  to  do  him  good.  Yet  in  many  ways  it 
works  to  a  like  end.  It  brings  men  together,  makes 


292  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

them  feel  the  need  of  one  another,  be  considerate  of 
one  another,  understand  one  another.  But,  above  all 
things,  it  is  a  promoter  of  equality.  It  is  by  the  hu- 
manity of  their  manners  that  men  are  made  equal.  "  A 
man  thinks  to  show  himself  my  equal,"  says  Goethe, 
"  by  being  groh^  —  that  is  to  say,  coarse  and  rude  ;  he 
does  not  show  himself  my  equal,  he  shows  himself 
grohy  But  a  community  having  humane  manners  is 
a  community  of  equals,  and  in  such  a  community  great 
social  inequalities  have  really  no  meaning,  while  they 
are  at  the  same  time  a  menace  and  an  embarrassment 
to  pei'fect  ease  of  social  intercourse.  A  community 
with  the  spirit  of  society  is  eminently,  therefore,  a 
community  with  the  spirit  of  equality.  A  nation  with 
a  genius  for  society,  like  the  French  or  the  Athenians, 
is  irresistibly  drawn  towards  equality.  From  the  first 
moment  when  the  French  people,  with  its  congenital 
sense  for  the  power  of  social  intercourse  and  manners, 
came  into  existence,  it  was  on  the  road  to  equality. 
When  it  had  once  got  a  high  standard  of  social  man- 
ners abundantly  established,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
natural,  material  necessity  for  the  feudal  inequality 
of  classes  and  property  pressed  upon  it  no  longer,  the 
French  people  introduced  equality  and  made  the  French 
Revolution.  "It  was  not  the  spirit  of  philanthropy 
which  mainly  impelled  the  French  to  that  Revolution, 
neither  was  it  the  spirit  of  envy,  neither  was  it  the  love 
of  abstract  ideas,  though  all  these  did  something  to- 
wards it ;  but  what  did  most  was  the  spirit  of  society. 

The  well-being  of  the  many  comes  out  more  and 
more  distinctly,  in  proportion  as  time  goes  on,  as  the 
object  we  must  pursue.  An  individual  or  a  class,  con- 
centrating their  efforts  upon  their  own  well-being  ex- 
clusively, do  but  beget  troubles  both  for  others  and 
for  themselves  also.  No  individual  life  can  be  truly 


EQUALITY  293 

prosperous,  passed,  as  Obermann  says,  in  the  midst 
of  men  who  suffer ;  passee  au  milieu  des  generations 
qui  souffrent.  To  the  noble  soul,  it  cannot  be  happy ; 
to  the  ignoble,  it  cannot  be  secure.  Socialistic  and 
communistic  schemes  have  generally,  however,  a  fatal 
defect ;  they  are  content  with  too  low  and  material  a 
standard  of  well-being.  That  instinct  of  perfection, 
which  is  the  master-power  in  humanity,  always  rebels 
at  this,  and  frustrates  the  work.  Many  are  to  be  made 
partakers  of  well-being,  true  ;  but  the  ideal  of  well- 
being  is  not  to  be,  on  that  account,  lowered  and  coars- 
ened. M.  de  Laveleye,^  the  political  economist,  who  is 
a  Belgian  and  a  Protestant,  and  whose  testimony, 
therefore,  we  may  the  more  readily  take  about  France, 
says  that  France,  being  the  country  of  Europe  where 
the  soil  is  more  divided  than  anywhere  except  in  Switz- 
erland and  Norway,  is  at  the  same  time  the  country 
where  material  well-being  is  most  widely  spread,  where 
wealth  has  of  late  years  increased  most,  and  where 
population  is  least  outrunning  the  limits,  which,  for 
the  comfort  and  progress  of  the  working  classes  them- 
selves, seem  necessary.  This  may  go  for  a  good  deal. 
It  supplies  an  answer  to  what  Sir  Erskine  May  ^  says 
about  the  bad  effects  of  equality  upon  French  pros- 
perity. But  I  will  quote  to  you  from  Mr.  Hamerton  ^ 
what  goes,  I  think,  for  yet  more.  Mr.  Hamerton  is  an 
excellent  observer  and  reporter,  and  has  lived  for 
many  years  in  France.  He  says  of  the  French  peas- 
antry that  they  are  exceedingly  ignorant.  So  they  are. 
But  he  adds  :  "  They  are  at  the  same  time  full  of  in- 
telligence ;  their  manners  are  excellent,  they  have 
delicate  perceptions,  they  have  tact,  they  have  a  cer- 
tain refinement  which  a  brutalized  peasantry  could  not 
possibly  have.  If  you  talk  to  one  of  them  at  his  own 
home,  or  in  his  field,  he  will  enter  into  conversation 


294  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

with  you  quite  easily,  and  sustain  his  part  in  a  per- 
fectly becoming  way,  with  a  pleasant  combination  of 
dignity  and  quiet  humor.  The  interval  between  him 
and  a  Kentish  laborer  is  enormous." 

This  is,  indeed,  worth  your  attention.  Of  course  all 
mankind  are,  as  Mr.  Gladstone  says,  of  our  own  flesh 
and  blood.  But  you  know  how  often  it  happens  in 
England  that  a  cultivated  person,  a  person  of  the  sort 
that  Mr.  Charles  Sumner  i  describes,  talking  to  one  of 
the  lower  class,  or  even  of  the  middle  class,  feels  and 
cannot  but  feel,  that  there  is  somehow  a  wall  of  parti- 
tion between  himself  and  the  other,  that  they  seem  to 
belong  to  two  different  worlds.  Thoughts,  feelings, 
perceptions,  susceptibilities,  language,  manners,  — 
everything  is  different.  Whereas,  with  a  French  peas- 
ant, the  most  cultivated  man  may  find  himself  in 
sympathy,  may  feel  that  he  is  talking  to  an  equal. 
This  is  an  experience  which  has  been  made  a  thousand 
times,  and  which  may  be  made  again  any  day.  And  it 
may  be  carried  beyond  the  range  of  mere  conversation, 
it  may  be  extended  to  things  like  pleasures,  recrea- 
tions, eating  and  drinking,  and  so  on.  In  general  the 
pleasures,  recreations,  eating  and  drinking  of  English 
people,  when  once  you  get  below  that  class  which  Mr. 
Charles  Sumner  calls  the  class  of  gentlemen,  are  to 
one  of  that  class  unpalatable  and  impossible.  In 
France  there  is  not  this  incompatibility.  Whether 
he  mix  with  high  or  low,  the  gentleman  feels  himself 
in  a  world  not  alien  or  repulsive,  but  a  world  where 
people  make  the  same  sort  of  demands  upon  life,  in 
things  of  this  sort,  which  he  himself  does.  In  all  these 
respects  France  is  the  country  where  the  people,  as 
distinguished  from  a  wealthy  refined  class,  most  lives 
what  we  call  a  humane  life,  the  life  of  civilized  man. 

Of  course,  fastidious  persons  can  and  do  pick  holes 


EQUALITY  295 

in  it.  There  is  just  now,  in  France,  a  noblesse  newly- 
revived,  fall  of  pretension,  full  of  airs  and  graces  and 
disdains ;  but  its  sphere  is  narrow,  and  out  of  its  own 
sphere  no  one  cares  very  much  for  it.  There  is  a  gen- 
eral equality  in  a  humane  kind  of  life.  This  is  the 
secret  of  the  passionate  attachment  with  which  France 
inspires  all  Frenchmen,  in  spite  of  her  fearful  trou- 
bles, her  checked  jjrosperity,  her  disconnected  units, 
and  the  rest  of  it.  There  is  so  much  of  the  goodness 
and  agreeableness  of  life  there,  and  for  so  many.  It  is 
the  secret  of  her  having  been  able  to  attach  so  ar- 
dently to  her  the  German  and  Protestant  people  of 
Alsace,^  while  we  have  been  so  little  able  to  attach  the 
Celtic  and  Catholic  people  of  Ireland.  France  brings 
the  Alsatians  into  a  social  system  so  full  of  the  good- 
ness and  agreeableness  of  life ;  we  offer  to  the  Irish 
no  such  attraction.  It  is  the  secret,  finally,  of  the  prev- 
alence which  we  have  remarked  in  other  continental 
countries  of  a  legislation  tending,  like  that  of  France, 
to  social  equality.  The  social  system  which  equality 
creates  in  France  is,  in  the  eyes  of  others,  such  a  giver 
of  the  goodness  and  agreeableness  of  life,  that  they 
seek  to  get  the  goodness  by  getting  the  equality. 

Yet  France  has  had  her  fearful  troubles,  as  Sir 
Erskine  May  justly  says.  She  suffers  too,  he  adds, 
from  demoralization  and  intellectual  stoppage.  Let  us 
admit,  if  he  likes,  this  to  be  true  also.  His  error  is 
that  he  attributes  all  this  to  equality.  Equality,  as  we 
have  seen,  has  brought  France  to  a  really  admirable 
and  enviable  pitch  of  humanization  in  one  important 
line.  And  this,  the  work  of  equality,  is  so  much  a  good 
in  Sir  Erskine  May's  eyes,  that  he  has  mistaken  it  for 
the  whole  of  which  it  is  a  part,  frankly  identifies  it 
with  civilization,  and  is  inclined  to  pronounce  France 
the  most  civilized  of  nations. 


Q96  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

But  we  have  seen  liow  much  goes  to  full  huraaniza- 
tion,  to  true  civilization,  besides  the  power  of  social 
life  and  manners.  There  is  the  power  of  conduct,  the 
power  of  intellect  and  knowledge,  the  power  of  beauty. 
The  power  of  conduct  is  the  greatest  of  all.  And  with- 
out in  the  least  wishing  to  preach,  I  must  observe,  as 
a  mere  matter  of  natural  fact  and  experience,  that  for 
the  power  of  conduct  France  has  never  had  anything 
like  the  same  sense  which  she  has  had  for  the  power  of 
social  life  and  manners.  Michelet,^  himself  a  French- 
man, gives  us  the  reason  why  the  Reformation  did  not 
succeed  in  France.  It  did  not  succeed,  he  says,  be- 
cause la  J^rance  ne  voidalt  pas  de  reforme  morale  — 
moral  reform  France  would  not  have  ;  and  the  Refor- 
mation was  above  all  a  moral  movement.  The  sense  in 
France  for  the  power  of  conduct  has  not  greatl}^  deep- 
ened, I  think,  since.  The  sense  for  the  power  of  intel- 
lect and  knowledge  has  not  been  adequate  either.  The 
sense  for  beauty  has  not  been  adequate.  Intelligence 
and  beauty  have  been,  in  general,  but  so  far  reached, 
as  they  can  be  and  are  reached  by  men  who,  of  the 
elements  of  perfect  humanization,  lay  thorough  hold 
upon  one  only,  —  the  power  of  social  intercourse  and 
manners.  I  speak  of  France  in  general ;  she  has  had, 
and  she  has,  individuals  who  stand  out  and  who  form 
exceptions,  AVell,  then,if  a  nation  laying  no  sufficient 
hold  upon  the  powers  of  beauty  and  knowledge,  and 
a  most  failing  and  feeble  hold  upon  the  power  of  con- 
duct, comes  to  demoralization  and  intellectual  stop- 
page and  fearful  troubles,  we  need  not  be  inordinately 
surprised.  What  we  should  rather  marvel  at  is  the 
healing  and  bountiful  operation-  of  Nature,  whereby 
the  laying  firm  hold  on  one  real  element  in  our  hu- 
manization has  had  for  France  results  so  beneficent. 

And  thus,  when  Sir  Erskine  May  gets  bewildered 


EQUALITY  297 

between  France's  equality  and  fearful  troubles  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  civilization  of  France  on  the  other, 
let  us  suggest  to  him  that  perhaps  he  is  bewildered  by 
his  data  because  he  combines  them  ill.  France  has  not 
exemplary  disaster  and  ruin  as  the  fruits  of  equality, 
and  at  the  same  time,  and  independently  of  this,  an 
exemplary  civilization.  She  has  a  large  measure  of 
happiness  and  success  as  the  fruits  of  equality,  and  she 
has  a  very  large  measure  of  dangers  and  troubles  as 
the  fruits  of  something  else. 

We  have  more  to  do,  however,  than  to  help  Sir 
Erskine  May  out  of  his  scrape  about  France.  We 
have  to  see  whether  the  considerations  which  we  have 
been  employing  may  not  be  of  use  to  us  about  Eng- 
land. 

We  shall  not  have  much  difficulty  in  admitting 
whatever  good  is  to  be  said  of  ourselves,  and  we  will 
try  not  to  be  unfair  by  excluding  all  that  is  not  so 
favorable.  Indeed,  our  less  favoi-able  side  is  the  one 
which  we  should  be  the  most  anxious  to  note,  in  order 
that  we  may  mend  it.  But  we  will  begin  with  the 
good.  Our  people  has  energy  and  honesty  as  its  good 
characteristics.  We  have  a  strong  sense  for  the  chief 
power  in  the  life  and  progress  of  man,  —  the  power  of 
conduct.  So  far  we  speak  of  the  English  people  as  a 
whole.  Then  we  have  a  rich,  refined,  and  splendid 
aristocracy.  And  we  have,  according  to  Mr.  Charles 
Sumner's  acute  and  true  remark,  a  class  of  gentle- 
men, not  of  the  nobility,  but  well-bred,  cultivated,  and 
refined,  larger  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  coun- 
try. For  these  last  we  have  Mr.  Sumner's  testimony. 
As  to  the  splendor  of  our  aristocracy,  all  the  world  is 
agreed.  Then  we  have  a  middle  class  and  a  lower 
class ;  and  they,  after  all,  are  the  immense  bulk  of  the 
nation. 


298  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Let  us  see  how  the  civilization  of  these  classes  ap- 
pears to  a  Frenchman,  who  has  witnessed,  in  his  own 
country,  the  considerable  humanization  of  these  classes 
by  equality.  To  such  an  observer  our  middle  class 
divides  itself  into  a  serious  portion  and  a  gay  or  rowdy 
portion ;  both  are  a  marvel  to  him.  With  the  gay  or 
rowdy  portion  we  need  not  much  concern  ourselves  ; 
we  shall  figure  it  to  our  minds  sufficiently  if  we  con- 
ceive it  as  the  source  of  that  war-song  produced  in 
these  recent  days  of  excitement :  — 

"  We  don't  want  to  fight,  but  by  jingo,  if  we  do, 
We  've  got  tlie  ships,  we  've  got  the  men,  and  we  've  got  the 
money  too."  ^ 

We  may  also  partly  judge  its  standard  of  life,  and  the 
needs  of  its  nature,  by  the  modern  English  theatre, 
perhaps  the  most  contemptible  in  Europe.  But  the 
real  strength  of  the  English  middle  class  is  in  its  se- 
rious portion.  And  of  this  a  Frenchman,  who  was  here 
some  little  time  ago  as  the  correspondent,  I  think,  of 
the  Steele  newspaper,  and  whose  letters  were  after- 
wards published  in  a  volume,  writes  as  follows.  He 
had  been  attending  some  of  the  Moody  and  Sankey^ 
meetings,  and  he  says  :  "  To  understand  the  success 
of  Messrs.  Moody  and  Sankey,  one  must  be  familiar 
with  English  manners,  one  must  know  the  mind-dead- 
ening influence  of  a  narrow  Biblism,  one  must  have 
experienced  the  sense  of  acute  ennui,  which  the  aspect 
and  the  frequentation  of  this  great  division  of  Eng- 
lish society  produce  in  others,  the  want  of  elasticity 
and  the  chronic  ennui  which  characterize  this  class  it- 
self, petrified  in  a  narrow  Protestantism  and  in  a  per- 
petual reading  of  the  Bible." 

You  know  the  French  ;  —  a  little  more  Biblism,  one 
may  take  leave  to  say,  would  do  them  no  harm.  But 
an  audience  like  this  —  and  here,  as  I  said,  is  the  ad- 


EQUALITY  299 

vantage  of  an  audience  like  this  —  will  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  admitting  the  amount  of  truth  which  there  is 
in  the  Frenchman's  picture.  It  is  the  picture  of  a  class 
which,  driven  by  its  sense  for  the  power  of  conduct,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century  entered,  — 
as  I  have  more  than  once  said,  and  as  I  may  ,more 
than  once  have  occasion  in  future  to  say,  —  entered  the 
prison  of  Puritanism,  and  had  the  key  turned  upon 
its  spirit  therefor  two  hundred  years}  They  did  not 
know,  good  and  earnest  people  as  they  were,  that  to 
the  building  up  of  human  life  there  belong  all  those 
other  powers  also,  —  the  power  of  intellect  and  knowl- 
edge, the  power  of  beauty,  the  power  of  social  life  and 
manners.  And  something,  by  what  they  became,  they 
gained,  and  the  whole  nation  with  them ;  they  deepened 
and  fixed  for  this  nation  the  sense  of  conduct.  But 
they  created  a  type  of  life  and  manners,  of  which  they 
themselves,  indeed,  are  slow  to  recognize  the  faults, 
but  which  is  fatally  condemned  by  its  hideousness,  its 
immense  ennui,  and  against  which  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  in  humanity  rebels. 

Partisans  fight  against  facts  in  vain.  Mr.  Gold  win 
Smitli,^  a  writer  of  eloquence  and  power,  although  too 
prone  to  acerbity,  is  a  partisan  of  the  Puritans,  and 
of  the  nonconformists  who  are  the  special  inheritors 
of  the  Puritan  tradition.  He  angrily  resents  the  im- 
putation upon  that  Puritan  type  of  life,  by  which  the 
life  of  our  serious  middle  class  has  been  formed,  that 
it  was  doomed  to  hideousness,  to  immense  ennui.  He 
protests  that  it  had  beauty,  amenity,  accomplishment. 
Let  us  go  to  facts.  Charles  the  First,  who,  with  all 
his  faults,  had  the  just  idea  that  art  and  letters  are 
gr^t  civilizers,  made,  as  you  know,  a  famous  collec- 
tion of  pictures,  — our  first  National  Gallery.  It  was, 
I  suppose,  the  best  collection  at  that  time  north  of  the 


300  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Alps.  It  contained  nine  Raphaels,  eleven  Correggios, 
twenty-eiglit  Titians.  What  became  of  that  collection  ? 
The  journals  of  the  House  of  Commons  will  tell  you. 
There  you  may  see  the  Puritan  Parliament  disposing 
of  this  Whitehall  or  York  House  collection  as  follows  : 
'  Ordered,  that  all  such  pictures  and  statues  there  as  are 
without  any  superstition,  shall  be  forthwith  sold.  .  .  . 
Ordered,  that  all  such  pictures  there  as  have  the  rep- 
resentation of  the  Second  Person  in  the  Trinity  upon 
them,  shall  be  forthwith  burnt.  Ordered,  that  all  such 
pictures  there  as  have  the  representation  of  the  Vir- 
gin ]Mary  upon  them,  shall  be  forthwith  burnt."  There 
we,-  have  the  weak  side  of  our  parliamentary  govern- 
ment and  our  serious  middle  class.  We  are  incapable 
of  sending  Mr.  Gladstone  to  be  tried  at  the  Old 
Bailey  because  he  proclaims  his  antipathy  to  Lord 
Beaconsfield.  A  majority  in  our  House  of  Commons 
is  incapable  of  hailing,  with  frantic  laughter  and  a|> 
plause,  a  string  of  indecent  jests  against  Christianity 
and  its  Founder.  But  we  are  not,  or  were  not  inca- 
pable of  producing  a  Parliament  which  burns  or  sells 
the  masterpieces  of  Italian  art.  And  one  may  surely 
say  of  such  a  Puritan  Parliament,  and  of  those  who 
determine  its  line  for  it,  that  they  had  not  the  spirit 
of  beauty. 

What  shall  we  say  of  amenity?  Milton  was  born  a 
humanist,  but  the  Puritan  temper,  as  we  know,  mas- 
tered him.  There  is  nothing  more  unlovely  aud  un- 
amiable  than  ISIilton  the  Puritan  disputant.  Some 
one  answers  his  Doctrine  and  Disciplhie  of  Divorce. 
"  I  mean  not,"  rejoins  Milton,  "  to  dispute*  philoso- 
phy with  this  pork,  who  never  read  any."  However, 
he  does  reply  to  hun,  and  throughout  the  reply  Mil- 
ton's great  joke  is,  that  his  adversary,  who  was 
anonymous,  is  a  serving-man.  "  Finally,  he  winds  up 


EQUALITY  301 

his  text  with  much  doubt  and  trepidation ;  for  it  may 
be  his  trenchers  were  not  scraped,  and  that  which 
never  yet  afforded  corn  of  favor  to  his  noddle  —  the 
salt-cellar  —  was  not  rubbed;  and  therefore,  in  this 
haste,  easily  granting  that  his  answers  fall  foul  upon 
each  other,  and  praying  you  would  not  think  he  writes 
as  a  prophet,  but  as  a  man,  he  runs  to  the  black  jack, 
fills  his  flagon,  spreads  the  table,  and  serves  up  din- 
ner." ^  There  you  have  the  same  spirit  of  urbanity  and 
amenity,  as  much  of  it,  and  as  little,  as  generally  in- 
forms the  religious  controversies  of  our  Puritan  mid- 
dle class  to  this  day. 

But  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith  ^  insists,  and  picks  out  his 
own  exemplar  of  the  Puritan  type  of  life  and  manners ; 
and  even  here  let  us  follow  him.  He  picks  out  the 
most  favorable  specimen  he  can  find,  —  Colonel  Hutch- 
inson,^ whose  well-known  memoirs,  written  by  his 
widow,  we  have  all  read  with  interest.  '*  Lucy  Hutch- 
inson," says  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith,  "  is  painting  what 
she  thought  a  perfect  Puritan  would  be  ;  and  her  pic- 
ture presents  to  us  not  a  coarse,  crop-eared,  and 
snuffling  fanatic,  but  a  highly  accomplished,  refined, 
gallant,  and  most  amiable,  though  religious  and  seri- 
ously minded,  gentleman."  Let  us,  I  say,  in  this  ex- 
ample of  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith's  own  choosing,  lay  our 
finger  upon  the  points  where  this  type  deflects  from 
the  truly  humane  ideal. 

Mrs.  Hutchinson  relates  a  story  which  gives  us  a 
good  notion  of  what  the  amiable  and  accomplished 
social  intercourse,  even  of  a  picked  Puritan  family, 
was;  Her  husband  was  governor  of  Nottingham.  He 
had  occasion,  she  said,  "  to  go  and  break  up  a  private 
meeting  in  the  cannoneer's  chamber "  ;  and  in  the 
cannoneer's  chamber  "  were  found  some  notes  con- 
cerning pasdobaptism,*  which,  being  brought  into  the 


302  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

goA'ernor's  lodgings,  his  wife  having  perused  them  and 
compared  them  with  the  Scriptures,  found  not  what  to 
say  against  the  truths  they  asserted  concerning  the  mis- 
application of  that  ordinance  to  infants."  Soon  after- 
wards she  expects  her  confinement,  and  communicates 
the  cannoneer's  doubts  about  paedobaptism  to  her  hus- 
band. The  fatal  cannoneer  makes  a  breach  in  him  too. 
"  Then  he  bought  and  read  all  the  eminent  treatises 
on  both  sides,  which  at  that  time  came  thick  from 
the  presses,  and  still  was  cleared  in  the  error  of  the 
paedobaptists."  Finally,  Mrs.  Hutchinson  is  confined. 
Then  the  governor  "  invited  all  the  ministers  to  din- 
ner, and  propounded  his  doubt  and  the  ground  thereof 
to  them.  None  of  them  could  defend  their  practice 
with  any  satisfactory  reason,  but  the  tradition  of  the 
Church  from  the  primitive  times,  and  their  main 
buckler  of  federal  holiness,  which  Tombs  and  Denne 
had  excellently  overthrown.  He  and  his  wife  then,  pro- 
fessing themselves  unsatisfied,  desired  their  opinions." 
With  the  opinions  I  will  not  trouble  you,  but  hasten  to 
the  result :  "  Whereupon  that  infant  was  not  baptised." 
No  doubt  to  a  large  division  of  English  society  at 
this  very  day,  that  sort  of  dinner  and  discussion,  and 
indeed,  the  whole  manner  of  life  and  conversation 
here  suggested  by  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  narrative,  will 
seem  both  natural  and  amiable,  and  such  as  to  meet 
the  needs  of  man  as  a  religious  and  social  creature. 
You  know  the  conversation  which  reigns  in  thousands 
of  middle-class  families  at  this  hour,  about  nunneries, 
teetotalism,  the  confessional,  eternal  punishment,  ritu- 
alism, disestablishment.  It  goes  wherever  the  class 
goes  which  is  moulded  on  the  Puritan  type  of  life.  In 
the  long  winter  evenings  of  Toronto  Mr.  Goldwin 
Smith  has  had,  probably,  abundant  experience  of  it. 
What  is  its  enemy  ?  The  instinct  of  self-preservation 


EQUALITY  S03 

in  humanity.  Men  make  crude  types  and  try  to  im- 
pose them,  but  to  no  purpose.  "  L''homme  s'agite^ 
D'leu  le  vfiene^''  ^  says  Bossuet.  "  There  are  many 
devices  in  a  man's  heart;  nevertheless  the  counsel  of 
the  Eternal,  that  shall  stand."  ^  Those  who  offer  us  the 
Puritan  type  of  life  offer  us  a  religion  not  true, 
the  claims  of  intellect  and  knowledge  not  satisfied,  the 
claim  of  beauty  not  satisfied,  the  claim  of  manners  not 
satisfied.  In  its  strong  sense  for  conduct  that  life 
touches  truth ;  but  its  other  imperfections  hinder  it 
from  employing  even  this  sense  aright.  The  type  mas- 
tered our  nation  for  a  time.  Then  came  the  reaction. 
The  nation  said :  "  This  type,  at  any  rate,  is  amiss ; 
we  are  not  going  to  be  all  like  that !  "  The  type  re- 
tired into  our  middle  class,  and  fortified  itself  there. 
It  seeks  to  endure,  to  emerge,  to  deny  its  own  imper- 
fections, to  impose  itself  again  ;  —  impossible  !  If  we 
continue  to  live,  we  must  outgrow  it.  The  very  class 
in  which  it  is  rooted,  our  middle  class,  will  have  to  ac- 
knowledge the  type's  inadequacy,  will  have  to  acknowl- 
edge the  hideousness,  the  immense  ennui  of  the  life 
which  this  type  has  created,  will  have  to  transform 
itseK  thoroughly.  It  will  have  to  admit  the  large  part 
of  truth  which  there  is  in  the  criticisms  of  our  French- 
man, whom  we  have  too  long  forgotten. 

After  our  middle  class  he  turns  his  attention  to  our 
lower  class.  And  of  the  lower  and  larger  portion  of 
this,  the  portion  not  bordering  on  the  middle  class 
and  sharing  its  faults,  he  says  :  "  I  consider  this  mul- 
titude to  be  absolutely  devoid,  not  only  of  political 
principles,  but  even  of  the  most  simple  notions  of  good 
and  evil.  Certainly  it  does  not  appeal,  this  mob,  to 
the  principles  of  '89,  which  you  English  make  game 
of ;  it  does  not  insist  on  the  rights  of  man  ;  what  it 
wants  is  beer,  gin,  andy'wri."^ 


304  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

That  is  a  description  of  what  Mr.  Bright^  would 
call  the  residuum,  only  our  author  seems  to  think  the 
residuum  a  very  large  body.  And  its  condition  strikes 
him  with  amazement  and  horror.  And  surely  well  it 
may.  Let  us  recall  Mr.  Hamerton's  account  of  the 
most  illiterate  class  in  France  ;  what  an  amount  of 
civilization  they  have  notwithstanding !  And  this  is 
always  to  be  understood,  in  hearing  or  reading  a 
Frenchman's  praise  of  England.  He  envies  our  liberty, 
our  public  spirit,  our  trade,  our  stability.  But  there 
is  always  a  reserve  in  his  mind.  He  never  means  for 
a  moment  that  he  would  like  to  change  with  us.  Life 
seems  to  him  so  much  better  a  thing  in  France  for  so 
many  more  people,  that,  in  spite  of  the  fearful  troubles 
of  France,  it  is  best  to  be  a  Frenchman.  A  French- 
man might  agree  with  Mr.  Cobden,^  that  life  is  good 
in  England  for  those  people  who  have  at  least  <£5000 
a  year.  But  the  civilization  of  that  immense  majority 
who  have  not  £5000  a  year,  or  £500,  or  even  £100, 
—  of  our  middle  and  lower  class,  —  seems  to  him  too 
deplorable. 

And  now  what  has  this  condition  of  our  middle 
and  lower  class  to  tell  us  about  equahty?  How  is  it, 
must  we  not  ask,  how  is  it  that,  being  without  fearful 
troubles,  having  so  many  achievements  to  show  and 
so  much  success,  having  as  a  nation  a  deep  sense  for 
conduct,  having  signal  energy  and  honesty,  having 
a  splendid  aristocracy,  having  an  exceptionally  large 
class  of  gentlemen,  we  are  yet  so  little  civilized?  How 
is  it  that  our  middle  and  lower  classes,  in  spite  of  the 
individuals  among  them  who  are  raised  by  happy  gifts 
of  nature  to  a  more  humane  life,  in  spite  of  the  se- 
riousness of  the  middle  class,  in  spite  of  the  honesty 
and  power  of  true  work,  the  virtus  veritsque  labor^ 
which  are  to  be  found  in  abundance  throughout  the 


EQUALITY  305 

lower,  do  yet  present,  as  a  whole,  the  characters  which 
we  have  seen? 

And  really  it  seems  as  if  the  current  of  our  dis- 
course carried  us  of  itself  to  but  one  conclusion.  It 
seems  as  if  we  could  not  avoid  concluding,  that  just  as 
France  owes  her  fearful  troubles  to  other  things  and 
her  civilizedness  to  equality,  so  we  owe  our  immunity 
from  fearful  troubles  to  other  things,  and  our  uncivi- 
lizedness  to  inequality.  "  Knowledge  is  easy,"  says 
the  wise  man,  "  to  him  that  understandeth"  j^  easy,  he 
means,  to  him  who  will  use  his  mind  simply  and  ration- 
ally, and  not  to  make  him  think  he  can  know  what  he 
cannot,  or  to  maintain,  per  fas  et  nefas,  a  false  thesis 
with  which  he  fancies  his  interests  to  be  bound  up. 
And  to  him  who  will  use  his  mind  as  the  wise  man 
recommends,  surely  it  is  easy  to  see  that  our  short- 
comings in  civilization  are  due  to  our  inequality  ;  or, 
in  other  words,  that  the  great  inequality  of  classes  and 
property,  which  came  to  us  from  the  Middle  Age  and 
which  we  maintain  because  we  have  the  religion  of  in- 
equality, that  this  constitution  of  things,  I  say,  has 
the  natural  and  necessary  effect,  under  present  cir- 
cumstances, of  materializing  our  upper  class,  vulgariz- 
ing our  middle  class,  and  brutalizing  our  lower  class.^ 
And  this  is  to  fail  in  civilization. 

For  only  just  look  how  the  facts  combine  them- 
selves. I  have  said  little  as  yet  about  our  aristocratic 
class,  except  that  it  is  splendid.  Yet  these,  "  our  often 
very  unhappy  brethren,"  as  Burke  calls  them,  are  by 
no  means  matter  for  nothing  but  ecstasy.  Our  charity 
ought  certainly,  Burke  says,  to  "  extend  a  due  and 
anxious  sensation  of  pity  to  the  distresses  of  the  miser- 
able great."  Burke's  extremely  strong  language  about 
their  miseries  and  defects  I  will  not  quote.  For  my 
part,  I  am  always  disposed  to  marvel  that  human  be- 


306  ]VL\TTHEW  ARNOLD 

ings,  in  a  position  so  false,  should  be  so  good  as  these 
are.  Their  reason  for  existing  was  to  serve  as  a  num- 
ber of  centres  in  a  world  disintegrated  after  the  ruin 
of  the  Roman  Empire,  and  slowly  re-constituting  it- 
self. Numerous  centres  of  material  force  were  needed, 
and  these  a  feudal  aristocracy  supplied.  Their  large 
and  hereditary  estates  served  this  public  end.  The 
owners  had  a  positive  function,  for  which  their  estates 
were  essential.  In  our  modern  world  the  function  is 
gone  ;  and  the  great  estates,  with  an  infinitely  multi- 
plied power  of  ministering  to  mere  pleasure  and  in- 
dulgence, remain.  The  energy  and  honesty  of  our  race 
does  not  leave  itself  without  witness  in  this  class,  and 
nowhere  are  there  more  conspicuous  examples  of  indi- 
viduals raised  by  happy  gifts  of  nature  far  above  their 
fellows  and  their  circumstances.  For  distinction  of  all 
kinds  this  class  has  an  esteem.  Ever}i;hing  which  suc- 
ceeds they  tend  to  welcome,  to  win  over,  to  put  on 
their  side ;  genius  may  generally  make,  if  it  will,  not 
bad  terms  for  itself  with  them.  But  the  total  result  of 
the  class,  its  effect  on  society  at  large  and  on  national 
progress,  are  what  we  must  regard.  And  on  the  whole, 
with  no  necessary  function  to  fulfil,  never  conversant 
with  life  as  it  really  is,  tempted,  flattered,  and  spoiled 
from  childhood  to  old  age,  our  aristocratic  class  is 
inevitably  materialized,  and  the  more  so  the  more 
the  development  of  industry  and  ingenuity  augments 
the  means  of  luxury.  Every  one  can  see  how  bad  is  the 
action  of  such  an  aristocracy  upon  the  class  of  newly 
enriched  people,  whose  great  danger  is  a  materialistic 
ideal,  just  because  it  is  the  ideal  they  can  easiest  com- 
prehend. Nor  is  the  mischief  of  this  action  now  com- 
pensated by  signal  services  of  a  public  kind.  Turn 
even  to  that  sphere  which  aristocracies  think  specially 
their  own,  and  where  they  have  under  other  circum- 


EQUALITY  307 

stances  been  really  effective,  —  the  sphere  of  politics. 
When  there  is  need,  as  now,  for  any  large  forecast  of 
the  course  of  human  affairs,  for  an  acquaintance  with 
the  ideas  which  in  the  end  sway  mankind,  and  for  an 
estimate  of  their  power,  aristocracies  are  out  of  their 
element,  and  materialized  aristocracies  most  of  all.  In 
the  immense  spiritual  movement  of  our  day,  the  Eng- 
lish aristocracy,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  always  re- 
minds me  of  Pilate  confronting  the  phenomenon  of 
Christianity.  Nor  can  a  materialized  class  have  any 
serious  and  fruitful  sense  for  the  power  of  beauty. 
They  may  imagine  themselves  to  be  in  pursuit  of 
beauty  ;  but  how  often,  alas,  does  the  pursuit  come  to 
little  more  than  dabbling  a  little  in  what  they  are 
pleased  to  call  art,  and  making  a  great  deal  of  what 
they  are  pleased  to  call  love ! 

Let  us  return  to  their  merits.  For  the  power  of 
manners  an  aristocratic  class,  whether  materialized  or 
not,  will  always,  from  its  circumstances,  have  a  strong 
sense.  And  although  for  this  power  of  social  life  and 
manners,  so  important  to  civilization,  our  English 
race  has  no  special  natural  turn,  in  our  aristocracy 
this  power  emerges  and  marks  them.  When  the  day 
of  general  humanization  comes,  they  will  have  fixed 
the  standard  of  manners.  The  English  simplicity,  too, 
makes  the  best  of  the  English  aristocracy  more  frank 
and  natural  than  the  best  of  the  like  class  anywhere 
else,  and  even  the  worst  of  them  it  makes  free  from 
the  incredible  fatuities  and  absurdities  of  the  worst. 
Then  the  sense  of  conduct  they  share  with  their  coun- 
trymen at  large.  In  no  class  has  it  such  trials  to  un- 
dergo ;  in  none  is  it  more  often  and  more  grievously 
overborne.  But  really  the  right  comment  on  this  is 
the  comment  of  Pepys^  upon  the  evil  courses  of 
Charles  the  Second  and  the  Duke  of  York  and  the 


308  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

court  of  that  day :  "  At  all  which  I  am  sorry ;  but  it 
is  the  effect  of  idleness,  and  having  nothing  else  to 
employ  their  great  spirits  upon." 

Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  speak  in  dispraise  of 
that  unique  and  most  English  class  which  Mr.  Charles 
Sumner  extols  —  the  large  class  of  gentlemen,  not  of 
the  landed  class  or  of  the  nobility,  but  cultivated  and 
refined.  They  are  a  seemly  product  of  the  energy  and 
of  the  power  to  rise  in  our  race.  AYithout,  in  general, 
rank  and  splendor  and  wealth  and  luxury  to  polish 
them,  they  have  made  their  own  the  high  standard  of 
life  and  manners  of  an  aristocratic  and  refined  class. 
Not  having  all  the  dissipations  and  distractions  of  this 
class,  they  are  much  more  seriously  alive  to  the  power 
of  intellect  and  knowledge,  to  the  power  of  beauty. 
The  sense  of  conduct,  too,  meets  with  fewer  trials  in 
this  class.  To  some  extent,  however,  their  contiguous- 
ness  to  the  aristocratic  class  has  now  the  effect  of  ma- 
terializing them,  as  it  does  the  class  of  newly  enriched 
people.  The  most  palpable  action  is  on  the  young 
amongst  them,  and  on  their  standard  of  life  and  enjoy- 
ment. But  in  general,  for  this  whole  class,  established 
facts,  the  materialism  which  they  see  regnant,  too 
much  block  their  mental  horizon,  and  limit  the  possi- 
bilities of  things  to  them.  They  are  deficient  in  open- 
ness and  flexibility  of  mind,  in  free  play  of  ideas,  in 
faith  and  ardor.  Civilized  they  are,  but  they  are  not 
much  of  a  civilizing  force  ;  they  are  somehow  bounded 
and  ineffective. 

So  on  the  middle  class  they  produce  singularly  little 
effect.  AVhat  the  middle  class  sees  is  that  splendid 
piece  of  materialism,  the  aristoQratic  class,  with  a 
wealth  and  luxury  utterly  out  of  their  reach,  with  a 
standard  of  social  life  and  manners,  the  offspring  of 
that  wealth  and  luxury,  seeming  utterly  out  of  their 


EQUALITY  309 

reach  also.  And  thus  they  are  thrown  back  upon 
themselves  —  upon  a  defective  type  of  religion,  a  nar- 
row range  of  intellect  and  knowledge,  a  stunted  sense 
of  beauty,  a  low  standard  of  manners.  And  the  lower 
class  see  before  them  the  aristocratic  class,  and  its 
civilization,  such  as  it  is,  even  infinitely  more  out  of 
their  reach  than  out  of  that  of  the  middle  class  ;  while 
the  life  of  the  middle  class,  with  its  unlovely  types  of 
religion,  thought,  beauty,  and  manners,  has  naturally, 
in  general,  no  great  attractions  for  them  either.  And 
so  they,  too,  are  thrown  back  upon  themselves ;  upon 
their  beer,  their  gin,  and  their  fun.  Now,  then,  you 
will  understand  what  I  meant  by  saying  that  our  in- 
equality materializes  our  upper  class,  vulgarizes  our 
middle  class,  brutalizes  our  lower. 

And  the  greater  the  inequality  the  more  marked  is 
its  bad  action  upon  the  middle  and  lower  classes.  In 
Scotland  the  landed  aristocracy  fills  the  scene,  as  is 
well  known,  still  more  than  in  England ;  the  other 
classes  are  more  squeezed  back  and  effaced.  And  the 
social  civilization  of  the  lower  middle  class  and  of  the 
poorest  class,  in  Scotland,  is  an  example  of  the  conse- 
quences. Compared  with  the  same  class  even  in  Eng- 
land, the  Scottish  lower  middle  class  is  most  visibly, 
to  vary  Mr.  Charles  Sumner's  phrase,  less  well-bred, 
less  careful  in  personal  habits  and  in  social  conven- 
tions, less  refined.  Let  any  one  who  doubts  it  go,  after 
issuing  from  the  aristocratic  solitudes  which  possess 
Loch  Lomond,  let  him  go  and  observe  the  shopkeepers 
and  the  middle  class  in  Dumbarton,  and  Greenock, 
and  Gourock,  and  the  places  along  the  mouth  of  the 
Clyde.  And  for  the  poorest  class,  who  that  has  seen 
it  can  ever  forget  the  hardly  human  horror,  the  abjec- 
tion and  uncivilizedness  of  Glasgow? 

What  a  strange  religion,  then,  is  our  religion  of 


310  AL\TTHEW  AKNOLD 

inequality  !  Romance  often  helps  a  religion  to  hold  its 
ground,  and  romance  is  good  in  its  way ;  but  ours  is 
not  even  a  romantic  religion.  No  doubt  our  aristoc- 
racy is  an  object  of  very  strong  public  interest.  The 
Times  itself  bestows  a  leading  article  by  way  of  epitha- 
lamium  on  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  marriage.  And  those 
journals  of  a  new  type,  full  of  talent,  and  which  in- 
terest me  particularl}^  because  they  seem  as  if  they 
were  written  by  the  young  lion  ^  of  our  youth,  —  the 
young  lion  grown  mellow  and,  as  the  French  say,  viveur^ 
arrived  at  his  full  and  ripe  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  minded  to  enjoy  the  smooth  evening  of  his  days, — 
those  journals,  in  the  main  a  sort  of  social  gazette  of 
the  aristocracy,  are  apparently  not  read  by  that  class 
only  which  they  most  concern,  but  are  read  with  great 
avidity  by  other  classes  also.  And  the  common  people, 
too,  have  undoubtedly,  as  Mr.  Gladstone  says,  a  won- 
derful preference  for  a  lord.  Yet  our  aristocracy,  from 
the  action  upon  it  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  the 
Tudors,  and  the  political  necessities  of  George  the 
Third,  is  for  the  imagination  a  singularly  modern  and 
uninteresting  one.  Its  splendor  of  station,  its  wealth, 
show,  and  luxury,  is  then  what  the  other  classes  really 
admire  in  it ;  and  this  is  not  an  elevating  admiration. 
Such  an  admiration  will  never  lift  us  out  of  our  w\- 
garity  and  brutality,  if  we  chance  to  be  vulgar  and 
brutal  to  start  with ;  it  will  rather  feed  them  and  be 
fed  by  them.  So  that  when  Mr.  Gladstone  invites  us 
to  call  our  love  of  inequality  "  the  complement  of  the 
love  of  freedom  or  its  negative  pole,  or  the  shadow 
which  the  love  of  freedom  casts,  or  the  reverberation 
of  its  voice  in  the  halls  of  the  constitution,"  we  must 
surely  answer  that  all  this  mystical  eloquence  is  not 
in  the  least  necessary  to  explain  so  simple  a  matter ; 
that  our  love  of  inequality  is  really  the  vulgarity  in 


EQUALITY  311 

us,  and  the  brutality,  admiring  and  worshipping  the 
splendid  materiality. 

Our  present  social  organization,  however,  will  and 
must  endure  until  our  middle  class  is  provided  with 
some  better  ideal  of  life  than  it  has  now.  Our  present 
organization  has  been  an  appointed  stage  in  our 
growth ;  it  has  been  of  good  use,  and  has  enabled  us 
to  do  great  things.  But  the  use  is  at  an  end,  and  the 
stage  is  over.  Ask  yourselves  if  you  do  not  sometimes 
feel  in  yourselves  a  sense,  that  in  spite  of  the  stren- 
uous efforts  for  good  of  so  many  excellent  persons 
amongst  us,  we  begin  somehow  to  flounder  and  to  beat 
the  air ;  that  we  seem  to  be  finding  ourselves  stopped 
on  this  line  of  advance  and  on  that,  and  to  be  threat- 
ened with  a  sort  of  standstill.  It  is  that  we  are  trying 
to  live  on  with  a  social  organization  of  which  the  day 
is  over.  Certainly  equality  will  never  of  itself  alone 
give  us  a  perfect  civilization.  But,  with  such  inequality 
as  ours,  a  perfect  civilization  is  impossible. 

To  that  conclusion,  facts,  and  the  stream  itself  of 
this  discourse,  do  seem,  I  think,  to  carry  us  irresist- 
ibly. We  arrive  at  it  because  they  so  choose,  not  be- 
cause we  so  choose.  Our  tendencies  are  all  the  other 
way.  We  are  all  of  us  politicians,  and  in  one  of  two 
camps,  the  Liberal  or  the  Conservative.  Liberals  tend 
to  accept  the  middle  class  as  it  is,  and  to  praise  the 
nonconformists ;  while  Conservatives  tend  to  accept 
the  upper  class  as  it  is,  and  to  praise  the  aristocracy. 
And  yet  here  we  are  at  the  conclusion,  that  whereas 
one  of  the  great  obstacles  to  our  civilization  is,  as  I 
have  often  said,  British  nonconformity,  another  main 
obstacle  to  our  civilization  is  British  aristocracy  !  And 
this  while  we  are  yet  forced  to  recognize  excellent 
special  qualities  as  well  as  the  general  English  energy 
and  honesty,  and  a  number  of  emergent  humane  indi- 


812  AIATTHEW  ARNOLD 

viduals,  in  both  nonconformists  and  aristocracy. 
Clearly  sucli  a  conclusion  can  be  none  of  our  own 
seeking. 

Then  again,  to  remedy  our  inequality,  there  must 
be  a  change  in  the  law  of  bequest,  as  there  has  been 
in  France  ;  and  the  faults  and  inconveniences  of  the 
present  French  law  of  bequest  are  obvious.  It  tends 
to  ovei'-divide  property  ;  it  is  unequal  in  operation, 
and  can  be  eluded  by  people  limiting  their  families ; 
it  makes  the  children,  however  ill  they  may  behave, 
independent  of  the  parent.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Mill  i  and 
others  have  shown  that  a  law  of  bequest  fixing  the 
maximum,  whether  of  laud  or  money,  which  any  one 
individual  may  take  by  bequest  or  inheritance,  but  in 
other  respects  leaving  the  testator  quite  fi*ee,  has  none 
of  the  inconveniences  of  the  French  law,  and  is  in 
every  way  preferable.  But  evidently  these  are  not 
questions  of  practical  politics.  Just  imagine  Lord  Hart- 
ington  2  going  down  to  Glasgow,  and  meeting  his  Scotch 
Liberals  there,  and  sa}dng  to  them :  "  You  are  ill  at 
ease,  and  you  are  calling  for  change,  and  very  justly. 
But  the  cause  of  your  being  ill  at  ease  is  not  what  you 
suppose.  The  cause  of  your  being  ill  at  ease  is  the  pro- 
found imperfectness  of  your  social  civilization.  Your 
social  civilization  is,  indeed,  such  as  I  forbear  to  char- 
acterize. But  the  remedy  is  not  disestablishment.  The 
remedy  is  social  equality.  Let  me  direct  your  atten- 
tion to  a  reform  in  the  law  of  bequest  and  entail." 
One  can  hardly  speak  of  such  a  thing  without  laugh- 
ing. No,  the  matter  is  at  present  one  for  the  thoughts 
of  those  who  think.  It  is  a  thinj:  to  be  turned  over  in 
the  minds  of  those  who,  on  the  one  hand,  have  the 
spirit  of  scientific  inquirers,  bent  on  seeing  things  as 
they  really  are ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spirit  of 
friends  of  the  humane  life,  lovers  of  perfection.  To 


EQUALITY  313 

your  thoughts  I  commit  it.  And  perhaps,  the  more 
you  think  of  it,  the  more  you  will  be  persuaded  that 
Menander  ^  showed  his  wisdom  quite  as  much  when  he 
said  Choose  equality^  as  when  he  assured  us  that  Eml 
communications  corrupt  good  manners. 


NOTES 

POETRY  AND  THE  CLASSICS 

PAGE 

1  I.  Poetry  and  the  Classics.  Published  as  Preface  to 
Poems:  1853  (dated  Fox  How,  Ambleside, October  1,  1853). 
It  was  reprinted  in  Irish  Essays,  1882. 

2.  the  poem.   Empedocles  on  Etna. 

3.  the  Sophists.  "  A  name  given  by  the  Greeks  about  the 
middle  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  to  certain  teachers  of  a  supe- 
rior grade  who,  distinguishing  themselves  from  philosophers 
on  the  one  hand  and  from  artists  and  craftsmen  on  the  other, 
claimed  to  prepare  their  pupils,  not  for  any  particular  study 
or  profession,  but  for  civic  life."   Encyclo'pcedia  Britannica. 

2  I.  Poetics,  4. 

2.  Theognis,  11.  54-56. 

4  I.  "  The  poet,"  it  is  said.  In  the  Spectator  of  April  2, 
1853.  The  words  quoted  were  not  used  with  reference  to 
poems  of  mine.   [Arnold.] 

5  I.  Dido.  See  the  Iliad,  the  Oresteia  (Agamemnon,  Choe- 
phoroe,  and  Eumenides)  of  iEschylus,  and  the  J^neid. 

2.  Hermann  and  Dorothea,  Childe  Harold,  Jocelyn,  the 
Excursion.  Long  narrative  poems  by  Goethe,  Byron, 
Lamartine,  and  Wordsworth. 

6  I.  (Edipus.  See  the  (Edipus  Tyrannus  and  CEdipus 
Coloneus  of  Sophocles. 

7  I.  grand  style.  Arnold,  while  admitting  that  the  term 
grand  style,  which  he  repeatedly  uses,  is  incapable  of  exact 
verbal  definition,  describes  it  most  adequately  in  the  essay 
On  Translating  Homer :  "  1  think  it  will  be  found  that  the 
grand  style  arises  in  poetry  when  a  noble  nature,  poetically 
gifted,  treats  with  simplicity  or  with^severity  a  serious  sub- 
ject." See  On  the  Study  of  Celtic  Literature  and  on  Translat- 
ing Homer,  ed.  1895,  pp.  264-69. 

2.  Orestes,  or  Merope,  or  Alcmaeon.  The  story  of  Orestes 
was  dramatized  by  jEschylus,  by  Sophocles,  and  by  Eurip- 
ides. Merope  was  the  subject  of  a  f lost  tragedy  by  Eurip- 
ides and  of  several  modern  plays,  including  one  by  Matthew 
Arnold  himself.  The  story  of  Alcmaeon  was  the  subject  of 
several  tragedies  which  have  not  been  preserved. 

8  I.  Polybius.   A  Greek  historian  (c.  204-122  B.C.). 

9  I.  Menander.  See  Contribution  of  the  Celts,  Selections, 
Note  3,  p.^177. 

12  I .  rien  a  dire.  He  says  all  that  he  wishes  to,  but  unfortu- 
nately he  has  nothing  to  say. 

13  I.     Boccaccio's  Decameron,  4th  day,  5th  novel. 


316  NOTES 

PAGE 

2.  Henry  Hallam  (1777-1859).  English  historian.  See 
his  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe  in  the  Fifteenth, 

_    Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries,  chap.  23,  §§  51,  52. 

14  I.  Frangois  Pierre  Guillaume  Guizot  (1787-1874),  his- 
torian, orator,  and  statesman  of  France. 

16  I.  Pittacus,  of  Mytilene  in  Lesbos  (c.  650-569  B.C.),  was 
one  of  the  Seven  Sages  of  Greece.  His  favorite  sayings 
were:  "  It  is  hard  to  be  excellent  "  (xa^eT6c  icrd'Khv  (n/ievai), 
and  "  Know  when  to  act." 

17  I.  Barthold  Georg  Niebuhr  (1776-1831)  was  a  German 
statesman  and  historian.  His  Roman  History  (1827-32) 
is  an  epoch-making  work.  For  his  opinion  of  his  age  see  his 
Life  and  Letters,  London,  1852,  ii,  396. 

18  I.  Mneid,  xii,  894-95. 

THE  FUNCTION  OF  CRITICISM  AT  THE  PRESENT 
TIME 

20  I.  Reprinted  from  The  National  Review,  November, 
1864,  in  the  Essays  in  Criticism,  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1865. 

2.  In  On  Translating  Homer,  ed.  1903,  pp.  216-17. 

3.  An  essay  called  Wordsworth :  The  Man  and  the  Poet, 
published  in  The  North  British  Review  for  August,  1864, 
vol.  41.  John  Campbell  Shairp  (1819-85),  Scottish  critic 
and  man  of  letters,  was  professor  of  poetry  at  Oxford  from 
1877  to  1884.  The  best  of  his  lectures  from  this  chair  were 
published  in  1881  as  Aspects  of  Poetry. 

4.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  a  practice,  common  in 
England  during  the  last  century,  and  still  followed  in  France, 
of  printing  a  notice  of  this  kind,  —  a  notice  by  a  competent 
critic,  —  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  an  eminent  author's 
works,  might  be  revived  among  us  with  advantage.  To 
introduce  all  succeeding  editions  of  Wordsworth,  Mr. 
Shairp 's  notice  might,  it  seems  to  me,  excellently  serve;  it  is 
written  from  the  point  of  view  of  an  admirer,  nay,  of  a  disci- 
ple, and  that  is  right;  but  then  the  disciple  must  be  also,  as 
in  this  case  he  is,  a  critic,  a  man  of  letters,  not,  as  too  often 
happens,  some  relation  or  friend  with  no  qualification  for  his 
task  except  affection  for  his  author.   [Arnold.] 

5.  See  Memoirs  of  William  Wordsworth,  ed.  1851,  11,  151, 
letter  to  Bernard  Barton. 

21  I.  Irene.   An  unsuccessful  play  of  Dr.  Johnson's. 

22  I.  Preface.  Prefixed  to  the  second  edition  (1800)  of  the 
Lyrical  Ballads. 

28  I.  The  old  woman.  At  the  first  attempt  to  read  the 
newly  prescribed  liturgy  in  St.  Giles.'s  Church,  Edinburgh, 
on  July  23,  1637,  a  riot  took  place,  in  which  the  "  fauld- 
stools,"  or  folding  stools,  of  the  congregation  were  hurled 
as  missiles.  An  untrustworthy  tradition  attributes  the  fling- 
ing of  the  first  stool  to  a  certain  Jenny  or  Janet  Geddes. 

29  I.  Pensees  de  J.  Joubert,  ed.  1850,  i,  355,  titre  15,  2. 


NOTES  317 

PAGE 

30  1.  French  Revolution.  The  latter  part  of  Burke's  life  waa 
largely  devoted  to  a  conflict  with  the  upholders  of  the  French 
Revolution.  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France,  1790, 
and  Letters  on  a  Regicide  Peace,  1796,  are  his  most  famous 
writings  in  this  cause. 

31  I.  Richard  Price,  D.D.  (1723-91),  was  strongly  opposed 
to  the  war  with  America  and  in  sympathy  with  the  French 
revolutionists. 

2.  From  Goldsmith's  epitaph  on  Burke  in  the  Retaliation. 

32  I.  Num.  XXII,  35. 

2.  William  Eden,  First  Baron  Auckland  (1745-1814), 
English  statesman.  Among  other  services  he  represented 
English  interests  in  Holland  during  the  critical  years  1790- 
93. 

35  I.  Revue  des  deux  Mondes.  The  best-known  of  the 
French  magazines  devoted  to  literature,  art,  and  general 
criticism,  founded  in  Paris  in  1831  by  Frangois  Buloz. 

36  I.  Home  and  Foreign  Review.  Pubhshed  in  London 
1882-64. 

37  I.  Charles  Bowyer  Adderley,  First  Baron  Norton  (1814- 
1905),  English  politician,  inherited  valuable  estates  in 
Warwickshire.  He  was  a  strong  churchman  and  especially 
interested  in  education  and  the  colonies. 

2.  John  Arthur  Roebuck  (1801-79),  a  leading  radical  and 
utilitarian  reformer,  conspicuous  for  his  eloquence,  honesty, 
and  strong  hostility  to  the  government  of  his  day.  He  held  a 
seat  for  Sheffield  from  1849  until  his  death. 

38  I    From  Goethe's  Iphigenie  auf  Tauris,  i,  ii,  91-92. 

40  I.  detachment.  In  the  Buddhistic  religion  salvation  is 
found  through  an  emancipation  from  the  craving  for  the 
gratification  of  the  senses,  for  a  future  life,  and  for  pros- 
perity. 

42  I.  John  Somers,  Baron  Somers  (1651-1716),  was  the 
most  trusted  minister  of  William  III,  and  a  stanch  supporter 
of  the  English  Constitution.  See  Addison,  The  Freeholder, 
May  14,  1716,  and  Macauley's  History,  iv,  53. 

2.  William  Cobbett  (1762-1835).  English  politician  and 
writer.  As  a  pamphleteer  his  reputation  was  injured  by  his 
pugnacity,  self-esteem,  and  virulence  of  language.  See 
Heine,  Selections,  p.  120,  and  The  Contribution  of  the  Celts, 
Selections,  p.  179. 

3.  Carlyle's  Latter-Day  Pamphlets  (1850)  contain  much 
violent  denunciation  of  the  society  of  his  day. 

4.  Ruskin  turned  to  political  economy  about  1860.  In 
1862,  he  published  U7ito  this  Last,  followed  by  other  works 
of  similar  nature. 

5.  terrae  filii.  Sons  of  Mother  Earth;  hence,  obscure, 
mean  persons. 

6-  See  Heine,  Selections,  Note  2,  p.  117. 

43  I.  To  think  is  so  hard.  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister's 
Apprenticeship,  Book  vii,  chap.  ix. 


318  NOTES 

PAGE 

2.  See  Senancour's  Obermann,  letter  90.  Arnold  was  much 
influenced  by  this  remarkable  book.  For  an  account  of  the 
author  (1770-1846)  and  the  book  see  Arnold's  Stanzas  in 
Memory  oj  the  Author  of  "  Obermann,"  with  note  on  the 
poem,  and  the  essay  on  Obermann  in  Essays  in  Criticism, 
third  series. 

3.  So  sincere  is  my  dislike  to  all  personal  attack  and  con- 
troversy, that  I  abstain  from  reprinting,  at  this  distance  of 
time  from  the  occasion  which  called  them  forth,  the  essays 
in  which  I  criticized  Dr.  Colenso's  book;  I  feel  bound,  how- 
ever, after  all  that  has  passed,  to  make  here  a  final  declara- 
tion of  my  sincere  impenitence  for  having  published  them. 
Nay,  I  cannot  forbear  repeating  j^et  once  more,  for  his  bene- 
fit and  that  of  his  readers,  this  sentence  from  my  original 
remarks  upon  him;  There  is  truth  of  science  and  truth  of 
religion ;  truth  of  science  does  not  become  truth  of  religion  till  it 
is  made  religious.  And  I  will  add :  Let  us  have  all  the  science 
there  is  from  the  men  of  science;  from  the  men  of  religion 
let  us  have  religion.   [Arnold.] 

John  William  Colenso  (1814-83),  Bishop  of  Natal,  pub- 
lished a  series  of  treatises  on  the  Pentateuch,  extending  from 
1862-1879,  opposing  the  traditional  views  about  the  literal 
inspiration  of  the  Scriptures  and  the  actual  historical  char- 
acter of  the  Mosaic  story.  Arnold's  censorious  criticism  of 
the  first  volume  of  this  work  is  entitled  The  Bishop  and  the 
Philosopher  (Macmillan's  Magazine,  January,  18Q3).  As  an 
example  of  the  Bishop's  cheap  "  arithmetical  demonstra- 
tions" he  describes  him  as  presenting  the  case  of  Leviticus 
as  follows:  "  '//  three  priests  have  to  cat  264  pigeons  a  day, 
how  many  rhust  each  priest  eat  ? '  That  disposes  of  Leviti- 
cus." The  essay  is  devoted  chiefly  to  contrasting  Bishop 
Colenso's  unedifying  methods  with  those  of  the  philosopher 
Spinoza.  In  passing,  Arnold  refers  also  to  Dr.  Stanley's 
Sinai  and  Palestine  (1856),  quotations  from  which  are 
characterized  as  "  the  refreshing  spots  "  in  the  Bishop's 
volume. 

4.  It  has  been  said 'I  make  it  "a  crime  against  literary 
criticism  and  the  higher  culture  to  attempt  to  inform  the 
ignorant."  Need  I  point  out  that  the  ignorant  are  not 
informed  bv  being  confirmed  in  a  confusion?   [Arnold.] 

44       I.  Joubert's  Pensees,  ed.  ISoO,  11,  102,  titre  23,  54. 

2.  Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley  (1815-81),  Dean  of  West- 
minster. He  was  the  author  of  a  Life  of  (Thomas)  Arnold, 
1844.  In  university  politics  and  in  religious  discussions  he 
was  a  Liberal  and  the  advocate  of  toleration  and  compre- 
hension. 

3.  Frances  Power  Cobbe  (1822-1904),  a  prominent  Eng- 
lish philanthropist  and  woman  of  letters.  The  quotation 
below  is  from  Broken  Lights  (1864),  p.  134.  Her  Religious 
Duty  (1857),  referred  to  on  p.  46,  is  a  book  of  religious  and 
ethical  instruction  written  from  the  Unitarian  point  of 
view. 


NOTES  319 

PAGE 

4.  Ernest  Renan.  (1823-92),  French  philosopher  and 
Orientalist.  The  Vie  de  Jesus  (1863),  here  referred  to,  was 
begun  in  Syria  and  is  filled  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  East, 
but  is  a  work  of  literary  rather  than  of  scholarly  importance. 

45  I.  David  Friedrich  Strauss  (1808-74),  German  theolo- 
gian and  man  of  letters.  The  work  referred  to  is  the  Leben 
Jesu,  1835.   A  popular  edition  was  published  in  1864. 

2.  From  "  Fleury  (Preface)  on  the  Gospel."  —  Arnold's 
Note  Book. 

46  I.  Cicero's  Att.  16.  7.  3. 

2.  Coleridge's  happy  phrase.  Coleridge's  Confessions  of 
an  Inquiring  Spirit,  letter  2. 

49  I.  Luther's  theory  of  grace.  The  question  concerning 
the  "  means  of  grace,"  i.e.  whether  the  efficacy  of  the 
sacraments  as  channels  of  the  divine  grace  is  ex  opere  operato, 
or  dependent  on  the  faith  of  the  recipient,  was  the  chief 
subject  of  controversy  between  Catholics  and  Protestants 
during  the  period  of  the  Reformation. 

2.  Jacques  B^nigne  Bossuet  (1627-1704),  French  divine, 
orator,  and  writer.  His  Discours  sur  I'histoire  universelle 
(1681)  was  an  attempt  to  provide  ecclesiastical  authority 
with  a  rational  basis.  It  is  dominated  by  the  conviction  that 
"  the  establishment  of  Christianity  was  the  one  point  of  real 
importance  in  the  whole  history  of  the  world." 

50  I.  From  Virgil's  Eclogues,  iv,  5.  Translated  in  Shelley's 
Hellas :  "The  world's  great  age  begins  anew." 

THE   STUDY  OF  POETRY 

65  I.  Published  in  1880  as  the  General  Introduction  to  The 
English  Poets,  edited  by  T.  H.  Ward.  Reprinted  in  Essays 
in  Criticism,  Second  Series,  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1888. 

2.  This  quotation  is  taken,  slightly  condensed,  from  the 
closing  paragraph  of  a  short  introduction  contributed  by 
Arnold  to  The  Hundred  Greatest  Men,  Sampson,  Low  &  Co., 
London,  1885. 

56  I.  From  the  Preface  to  the  second  edition  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  1800. 

2.  Charles  Augustin  Sainte-Beuve  (1804-69),  French 
critic,  was  looked  upon  by  Arnold  as  in  certain  respects  his 
master  in  the  art  of  criticism. 

57  I.  a  criticism  of  life.  This  celebrated  phrase  was  first 
used  by  Arnold  in  the  essay  on  Joubert  (1864),  though  the 
theory  is  implied  in  On  Translating  Homer,  1861.  In  Jou- 
bert it  is  applied  to  literature:  "  The  end  and  aim  of  all  lit- 
erature, if  one  considers  it  attentively,  is,  in  truth,  nothing 
but  that."  It  was  much  attacked,  especially  as  applied  to 
poetry,  and  is  defended  as  so  applied  in  the  essay  on  Byron 
(1881).   See  also  Wordsworth,  Selections,  p.  230. 

2.  Compare  Arnold's  definition  of  the  function  of  criti- 
cism, Selections,  p.  52. 


320  NOTES 

PAGE 

59  I.  Paul  Pellisson  (1624-93).  Jrench  author,  friend  of 
Mile.  Scudcry,  and  historiographer  to  the  king. 

2.  Barren  and  servile  civility. 

3.  M.  Charles  d'  Hericault  was  joint  editor  of  the  Jannet 
edition  (1868-72)  of  the  poems  of  Clement  Marot  (1496- 
1544). 

62  I.  Imitation  of  Christ,  Book  iii,  chap.  43,  2. 

2.  CaBdmon.  The  first  important  religious  poet  in  Old 
English  literature.   Died  about  680  a.d. 

3.  Ludovic  Vitet  (1802-73).  French  dramatist  and  poli- 
tician. 

4.  Chanson  de  Roland.  The  greatest  of  the  Chansons  des 
Gestes,  long  narrative  poems  dealing  with  warfare  and  ad- 
venture, popular  in  France  during  the  Middle  Ages.  It  was 
composed  in  the  eleventh  century.  Taillefer  was  the  sur- 
name of  a  bard  and  warrior  of  the  eleventh  century.  The 
tradition  concerning  him  is  related  by  Wace,  Roman  de 
Rou,  third  part,  v.,  8035-62,  ed.  Andreson,  Heilbronn, 
1879.  The  Bodleian  Roland  ends  with  the  words:  "  ci  folt 
la  geste,  que  Turoldus  declinet."  Turold  has  not  been 
identified. 

63  I.  "  Then  began  he  to  call  many  things  to  remembrance, 
—  all  the  lands  which  his  valor  conquered,  and  pleasant 
France,  and  the  men  of  his  lineage,  and  Charlemagne  his 
liege  lord  who  nourished  him."  —  Chanson  de  Roland,  iii, 
939-42.   [Arnold.] 

2.  "  So  said  she;  they  long  since  in  Earth's  soft  arms  were 
reposing. 
There,  in  their  own  dearland,  their  fatherland,  Lace- 
daemon." 

Iliad,  III,  243,  244  (translated  by 
Dr.  Hawtrey).  [Arnold.] 

64  I.  "  Ah,  unhappy  pair,  why  gave  we  you  to  King  Peleus, 
to  a  mortal  ?  but  ye  are  without  old  age,  and  immortal.  Was 
it  that  with  men  born  to  misery  ye  might  have  sorrow  ?  "  — 
Iliad,  XVII,  443-445.    [Arnold.] 

2.  "  Nay,  and  thou  too,  old  man,  in  former  days  wast,  as 
we  hear,  happy."  —  Iliad,  xxiv,  543.     [Arnold.] 

3.  "  I  wailed  not,  so  of  stone  grew  I  within;  —  they 
wailed."  —  Inferno,  xxxiii,  39,  40.     [Arnold.] 

4.  "  Of  such  sort  hath  God,  thanked  be  His  mercy,  made 
me,  that  your  misery  toucheth  me  not,  neither  doth  the 
flame  of  this  fire  strike  me."  —  Inferno,  11,  91-93.   [Arnold.] 

5.  "  In  His  will  is  our  peace."  —  Paradiso,  iii,  85. 
[Arnold.] 

6.  Hetiry  IV,  part  2,  iii,  i,  18-20. 

65  I.   Hamlet,  v,  ii,  361-62. 

2.  Paradise  Lost,  1,  599-602. 

3.  Ibid.,  I,  108-9. 

4.  Ibid.,  TV,  271. 

66  I.  Poetics,  §  9. 


NOTES  321 

PAGE 

67  I.  Provengal,  the  language  of  southern  France,  from  the 
southern  French  oc  instead  of  the  northern  oil  for  "yes." 

68  I.  Dante  acknowledges  his  debt  to  Latini  (c.  1230-c.  1294), 
but  the  latter  was  probably  not  his  tutor.  He  is  the  author 
of  the  Tesoretto,  a  heptasyllabic  Italian  poem,  and  the  prose 
Livres  dou  Tresor,  a  sort  of  encyclopedia  of  medieval  lore, 
written  in  French  because  that  language  "  is  more  delight- 
ful and  more  widely  known." 

2.  Christian  of  Troyes.  A  French  poet  of  the  second  half  of 
the  twelfth  century,  author  of  numerous  narrative  poems 
dealing  with  legends  of  the  Round  Table.  The  present  quo- 
tation is  from  the  Cliges,  11.  30-39. 

69  I.  Chaucer's  two  favorite  stanzas,  the  seven-line  and 
eight-line  stanzas  in  heroic  verse,  were  imitated  from  Old 
French  poetry.  See  B.  ten  Brink's  The  Language  and  Meter 
of  Chaucer,  1901,  pp.  353-57. 

2.  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach.  A  medieval  German  poet, 
born  in  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century.  His  best-known 
poem  is  the  epic  Parzival. 

70  I.  From  Dryden's  Preface  to  the  Fables,  1700. 

2.  The  Confessio  Amantis,  the  single  English  poem  of 
John  Gower  (c.  1330-1408),  was  in  existence  in  1392-93. 

71  I.  souded.    The   French  sonde,   soldered,   fixed   fast. 
[Arnold.]    From  the    Prioress's  Tale,  ed.   Skeat,  1894,  B. 
1769.   The  line  should  read,"  O  martir,  souded  to  virgini- 
tee." 

73  I.  Frangois  Villon,  born  in  or  near  Paris  in  1431,  thief 
and  poet.  His  best-known  poems  are  his  ballades.  See  R.  L. 
Stevenson's  essay. 

2.  The  name  Heaulmibre  is  said  to  be  derived  from  a 
headdress  (helm)  worn  as  a  mark  by  courtesans.  In  Villon's 
ballad,  a  poor  old  creature  of  this  class  laments  her  days  of 
youth  and  beauty.  The  last  stanza  of  the  ballad  runs  thus: 

"  Ainai  le  bon  temps  regretons 
Entre  nous,  pauvres  vieilles  sottes. 
Assises  bas,  4  croppetons, 
Tout  en  ung  tas  comme  pelottes; 
A  petit  feu  de  chenevottes 
Tost  allumfies,  tost  estainctes. 
Et  jadis  fusmes  si  mignottes  ! 
Ainsi  en  prend  k  maintz  et  maintes." 

_  "  Thus  amongst  ourselves  we  regret  the  good  time,  poor 
silly  old  things,  low-seated  on  our  heels,  all  in  a  heap  like  so 
many  balls;  by  a  little  fire  of  hemp-stalks,  soon  lighted,  soon 
spent.  And  once  we  were  such  darlings!  So  fares  it  with 
many  and  many  a  one."    [Arnold.] 

74  I.  From  An  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  1688. 

2.  A  statement  to  this  effect  is  made  by  Dryden  in  the 
Preface  to  the  Fables. 

3.  From  Preface  to  the  Fables. 

75  I.  See  Wordsworth's  Essay,  Supplementary  to  the  Preface, 
1815,  and  Coleridge's  Biographia  Literaria. 


322  NOTES 

PAGE 

2.  An  Apology  for  Smedymnus,  Prose  Works,  ed.  1843, 

III,  117-18.   Milton  was  thirty-four  years  old  at  this  time. 

76  I.  The  opening  words  of  Dryden's  Postscript  to  the  Reader 
in  the  translation  of  Virgil,  1697. 

77  I.  The  opening  lines  of  The  Hind  and  the  Panther. 
2.  Imitations  of  Horace,  Book  ii,  Satire  2, 11. 143-44. 

78  I.  From  On  the  Death  of  Robert  Dundas,  Esq. 

79  I.  Clarinda,  A  name  assumed  by  Mrs.  Maclehose  in  her 
sentimental  connection  with  Burns,  who  corresponded  with 
her  under  the  name  of  Sylvander. 

2.  Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson,  October  19,  1794. 

80  I.  From  The  Holy  Fair. 

81  I.  From  Epistle:  To  a   Young  Friend. 

2.  From  Address  to  the  Unco'  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly  Right- 
eous. 

3.  From  Epistle:  To  Dr.  Blacklock. 

4.  See  his  Memorabilia. 

83  I.  From  Winter:  A  Dirge. 

84  I.  From  Shelley's  Prometheus  Unbound,  iii,  iv,  last  line. 
2.  Ibid.,  II,  V. 

LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE 

87  I.  Reprinted  (considerably  revised)  from  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  August,  1882,  vol.  xii,  in  Discourses  in  America, 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1885.  It  was  the  most  popular  of  the 
three  lectures  given  by  Arnold  during  his  visit  to  America  in 
1883-84. 

2.  Plato's  Republic,  6.  495,  Dialogues,  ed.  Jowett,  1875, 
vol.  3,  p.  194. 

3.  working  lawyer.  Plato's  Thecetetus,  172-73,  Dialogues, 

IV,  231. 

88  I.  majesty.  All  editions  read  "majority."  What  Emer- 
son said  was  "majesty,"  which  is  therefore  substituted  here. 
See  Emerson's  Literary  Ethics,  Works,  Centenary  ed.,  i,  179. 

89  I.  "His  whole  soul  is  perfected  and  ennobled  by  the  ac- 
quirement of  justice  and  temperance  and  wisdom.  .  .  .  And 
in  the  first  place,  he  will  honor  studies  which  impress  these 
qualities  on  his  soul  and  will  disregard  others."  —  Republic, 
IX,  591,  Dialogues,  iii,  305. 

91  I.  See  The  Fxinction  of  Criticism,  Selections,  p.  52. 

2.  Delivered  October  1,  1880,  and  printed  in  Science  and 
Culture  and  Other  Essays,  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1881. 

3.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  pp.  52-53. 

92  I.  See  L' Instruction  superieur  en  France  in  Renan's 
Questions  Contemporaines,  Paris,  1868. 

93  I.  Friedrich  August  Wolf  (1759-1824),  German  philolo- 
gist and  critic. 

99       I.  See  Plato's  Symposium,  Dialogues,  11,  52-63. 
100       I.  James  Joseph  Sylvester  (1814-97),  English  mathema- 
tician. In  1883,  the  year  of  Arnold's  lecture,  he  resigned  a 


NOTES  323 

PAGE 

position  as  teacher  in  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Baltimore, 
to  accept  the  Savilian  Chair  of  Geometry  at  Oxford. 

101  I.  Darwin's  famous  proposition.  Descent  of  Man,  Fa,Tt  in, 
chap.  XXI,  ed.  1888,  ii,  424. 

103  I.  Michael  Faraday  (1791-1867),  English  chemist  and 
physicist,  and  the  discoverer  of  the  induction  of  electrical 
currents.  He  belonged  to  the  very  small  Christian  sect 
called  after  Robert  Sandeman,  and  his  opinion  with  respect 
to  the  relation  between  his  science  and  his  religion  is  ex- 
pressed in  a  lecture  on  mental  education  printed  at  the  end 
of  his  Researches  in  Chemistry  and  Physics. 

105       I.  Eccles.  VIII,  17.    [Arnold.] 

2.  Iliad,  XXIV,  49.    [Arnold.] 

3.  Luke  IX,  25. 
107       1.  Macbeth,  v,  iii. 

109  I.  A  touching  account  of  the  devotion  of  Lady  Jane 
Grey  (1537-54)  to  her  studies  is  to  be  found  in  Ascham's 
Scholemaster,  Arber's  ed.,  46-47. 

HEINRICH   HEINE. 

112  I.  Reprinted  from  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  vol.  viii, 
August,  1863,  in  Essays  in  Criticism,  1st  series,  1865. 

2.  Written  from  Paris,   March  30,   1855.    See  Heine's 
Memoirs,  ed.  1910,  11,  270. 

113  I.  The  German  Romantic  school  of  Tieck  (1773-1853), 
Novalis  (1772-1801),  and  Richter  (1763-1825)  followed  the 
classical  school  of  Schiller  and  Goethe.  It  was  characterized 
by  a  return  to  individualism,  subjectivity,  and  the  super- 
natural. Carlyle  translated  extracts  from  Tieck  and  Richter 
in  his  German  Romance  (1827),  and  his  Critical  and  Miscel- 
laneous Essays  contain  essays  on  Richter  and  Novalis. 

114  I.  From  English  Fragments;  Conclusion,  in  Pictures  of 
Travel,  ed.  1891,  Leland's  translation,  Works,  iii,  466-67. 

117  I.  Heine's  birthplace  was  not  Hamburg,  but  Diisseldorf. 
2.  Philistinism.  In  German  university  slang  the  term 
Philister  was  applied  to  townsmen  by  students,  and  corre- 
sponded to  the  English  university  "snob."  Hence  it  came  to 
mean  a  person  devoid  of  culture  and  enlightenment,  and  is 
used  in  this  sense  by  Goethe  in  1773.  Heine  was  especially 
instrumental  in  popularizing  the  expression  outside  of 
Germany.  Carlyle  first  introduced  it  into  English  literature 
in  1827.  In  a  note  to  the  discussion  of  Goethe  in  the  second 
edition  of  German  Romance,  he  speaks  of  a  Philistine  as  one 
who"  judged  of  Brunswick  mum,  by  its  utility."  He  adds: 
"Stray  specimens  of  the  Philistine  nation  are  said  to  exist 
in  our  own  Islands;  but  we  have  no  name  for  them  like  the 
Germans."  The  term  occurs  also  in  Carlyle's  essays  on  The 
State  of  German  Literature,  1827,  and  Historic  Survey  of 
German  Poetry,  1831.  Arnold,  however,  has  done  most  to  es- 
tablish the  word  in  English  usage.  He  applies  it  especially  to 


324  NOTES 

PAGE 

members  of  the  middle  class  who  are  swayed  chiefly  by  ma- 
terial interests  and  are  blind  to  the  force  of  ideas  and  the 
value  of  culture.  Leslie  Stephen,  who  is  always  ready  to 
plead  the  cause  of  the  Philistine,  remarks:  "As  a  clergyman 
always  calls  every  one  from  whom  he  differs  an  atheist,  and 
a  bargee  has  one  or  two  favorite  but  unmentionable  ex- 
pressions for  the  same  purpose,  so  a  prig  always  calls  his  ad- 
versary a  Philistine."  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  and  the  Church 
of  England,  Fraser's  Magazine,  October,  1870. 

3.  The  word  solecism  is  derived  from  26Xot,  in  Cilicia, 
owing  to  the  corruption  of  the  Attic  dialect  among  the 
Athenian  colonists  of  that  place. 

118  I.  The  "  gig  "  as  Carljde's  symbol  of  philistinism  takes 
its  origin  from  a  dialogue  which  took  place  in  Thurtell's 
trial:  "I  always  thought  him  a  respectable  man."  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  'respectable  '?  "  "  He  kept  a  gig."  From 
this  he  coins  the  words  "  gigman,"  "  gigmanity,"  "  gig- 
mania,"  which  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in  his  writings. 

119  I.  English  Fragments,  Pictures  of  Travel,  Works,  iii,  464. 

120  I.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  Note  2,  p. 
42. 

121  I.  English  Fragments,  chap,  ix,  in  Pictures  of  Travel, 
Works,  III,  410-11. 

2.  Adapted  from  a  line  in  Wordsworth's  Resolution  and 
Independence. 

122  I.  Charles  the  Fifth.  Ruler  of  The  Holy  Roman  Empire, 
1500-58. 

124  I.  English  Fragments,  Conclusion,  in  Pictures  of  Travel, 
Works,  III,  468-70. 

2.  A  complete  edition  has  at  last  appeared  in  Germany. 
[Arnold.] 

125  I.  Augustin  Eugene  Scribe  (1791-1861),  French  drama- 
tist, for  fifty  years  the  best  exponent  of  the  ideas  of  the 
French  middle  class. 

126  I.  Charles  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte  (Napoleon  III), 
1808-73,  son  of  Louis  Bonaparte,  brother  of  Napoleon  I,  by 
the  coup  d'etat  of  December,  1851,  became  Emperor  of 
France.  This  was  accompHshed  against  the  resistance  of  the 
Moderate  Republicans,  partly  through  the  favor  of  his 
democratic  theories  with  the  mass  of  the  French  people. 
Heine  was  mistaken,  however,  in  believing  that  the  rule  of 
Louis  Napoleon  had  prepared  the  way  for  Communism.  An 
attempt  to  bring  about  a  Communistic  revolution  was  easily 
crushed  in  1871. 

127  I.  J.  J.  von  Goerres  (1776-1848),  Klemens  Brentano 
(1778-1842),  and  Ludwig  Achim  von  Arnim  (1781-1831) 
were  the  leaders  of  the  second  German  Romantic  school  and 
constitute  the  Heidelberg  group  of  writers.  They  were  much 
interested  in  the  German  past,  and  strengthened  the  national 
and  patriotic  spirit.  Their  work,  however,  is  often  marred 
by  exaggeration  and  affectation. 


NOTES  325 

PAGE 

128  I.  From  The  Baths  of  Lucca,  chap,  x,  in  Pictures  of  Travel, 
Works,  III,  199. 

129  I.  Cf.  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  p.  26. 

2.  Job  XII,  23:  "  He  enlargeth  the  nations  and  straiteneth 
them  again." 

131  I.  Lucan,  Pharsalia,  hook  i,  135:  " he  stands  the  shadow 
of  a  great  name." 

132  I.  From  Ideas,  in  Pictures  of  Travel,  Works,  ii,  312-13. 

2.  Robert  Stewart,  Viscount  Castlereagh  (1769-1822), 
as  Foreign  Secretary  under  Lord  Liverpool,  became  the  soul 
of  the  coahtion  against  Napoleon,  which,  during  the  cam- 
paigns of  1813-14,  was  kept  together  by  him  alone.  He  com- 
mitted suicide  with  a  penknife  in  a  fit  of  insanity  in  August, 
1822. 

3.  From  Ideas,  in  Pictures  of  Travel,  Works,  11,  324. 

4.  From  English  Fragments,  1828,  in  Pictures  of  Travel, 
Works,  III,  340-42. 

133  I.  Song  in  Measure  for  Measure,  iv,  i. 

2.  From  The  Dying  One:  for  translation  see  p.  142. 
135       I.  From  Mountain  Idyll,  Travels  in  the  Hartz  Mountains, 
Book  of  Songs.  Works,  ed.  1904,  pp.  219-21. 

2.  Published  1851. 

3.  Rhampsinitus.  A  Greek  corruption  of  Ra-messu-pa- 
neter,  the  popular  name  of  Rameses  III,  King  of  Egypt. 

4.  Edith  with  the  Swan  Neck.  A  mistress  of  King  Har- 
old of  England. 

5.  MeUsanda  of  Tripoli.  Mistress  of  Geoffrey  Rudel,  the 
troubadour. 

6.  Pedro  the  Cruel.  King  of  Castile  (1334-69). 

7.  Firdusi.  A  Persian  poet,  author  of  the  epic  poem,  the 
Shahndma,  or"  Book  of  Kings,"  a  complete  history  of  Per- 
sia in  nearly  sixty  thousand  verses. 

8.  Dr.  Dollinger.  A  German  theologian  and  church  his- 
torian (1799-1890). 

9.  Spanish  Atrides,  Romancero,  Works,  ed.  1905,  pp. 
200-04). 

ID.  Henry  of  Trastamare.   King  of  Castile  (1369-79). 

137  I.  garbanzos.  A  kind  of  pulse  much  esteemed  in  Spain. 

138  I.  Adapted  from  Rom.  viii,  26. 

139  I.  From  The  Baths  of  Lucca,  chap,  ix,  in  Pictures  of 
Travel,  Works,  iii,  184-85. 

2.  Romancero,  book  iii. 

140  I.  Laura.  The  heroine  of  Petrarch's  famous  series  of  love 
lyrics  known  as  the  Canzoniere. 

2,  Court  of  Love.  For  a  discussion  of  this  supposed 
medieval  tribunal  see  William  A.  Neilson's  The  Originsand 
Sources  of  the  Court  of  Love,  Stiidies  and  Notes  in  Philology 
and  Literature,  Boston,  1899,  chap.  viii. 

142  I.  Disputation,  Romancero,  book  iii. 

2.  The  Dying  One,  Romancero,  book  11,  quoted  entire. 

143  I.  Written  from  Paris,  September  30, 1850.  See  Memoirs, 
ed.  1910,  II,  226-27. 


326  NOTES 

MARCUS  AURELIUS. 

PAGE 

145  I.  Reprinted  from  The  Victoria  Magazine,  ii,  1-9,  Novem- 
ber, 1863,  in  Essays  in  Criticism,  1865. 

2.  John  Stuart  Mill  (1806-73),  English  philosopher  and 
economist.   On  Liberty  (1859)  is  his  most  finished  writing. 

3.  The  Imitation  of  Christ  (Imitatio  Chri^ti),  a  famous 
medieval  Christian  devotional  work,  is  usually  ascribed  to 
Thomas  h.  Kempis  (1380-1471),  an  Augustinian  canon  of 
Mont  St.  Agnes  in  the  diocese  of  Utrecht. 

146  I.  Epictetus.  Greek  Stoic  philosopher  (born  c.  a.d.  60). 
He  is  an  earnest  preacher  of  righteousness  and  his  philos- 
ophy is  eminently  practical.  For  Arnold's  personal  debt  to 
him  see  his  sonnet  To  a  Friend. 

147  I.  Empedocles.  A  Greek  philosopher  and  statesman 
(c.  490-430  B.C.).  He  is  the  subject  of  Arnold's  early  poetical 
drama,  Empedocles  on  Etna,  which  he  later  suppressed  for 
reasons  which  he  states  in  the  Preface  to  the  Poems  of  1853. 
See  Selections,  pp.  1-3. 

2.  Encheiridion,  chap.  lii. 

3.  Pa.  cxLiii,  10;  incorrectly  quoted. 

4.  Is.  LX,  19. 

5.  Mai.  rv',  2. 

6.  John  I,  13. 

7.  John  III,  5. 

148  I.  I  John  V,  4. 

2.  Matt.  XIX,  26. 

3.  2  Cor.  V,  17. 

4.  Encheiridion,  chap.  XLiii. 

5.  Matt.  XVIII,  22. 

6.  Matt.  XXII,  37-39,  etc. 

149  I  George  Long  (1800-79),  classical  scholar.  He  pub- 
lished Selections  from  Plutarch's  Lives,  1862;  Thoughts  of 
Marcus  Aurelius,  1862;  etc. 

2.  Thomas  Arnold  (1795-1842),  English  clergyman  and 
headmaster  of  Rugby  School,  father  of  Matthew  Arnold. 

150  I.  Jeremy  Collier  (1650-1726).  His  best-known  work  is 
his  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness  of  the 
English  Stage,  1698,  a  sharp  and  efficacious  attack  on  the 
Post-Restoration  drama.  The  Emperor  M.  Aurelius  Antch 
ninus,  his  Conversation  ivith  himself,  appeared  in  1701. 

151  I.  Meditations,  111,  14. 

152  I.  Antoninus  Pius.  Roman  Emperor,  a.d.  138-161,  and 
foster-father  of  M.  Aurelius. 

2.  To  become  current  in  men's  speech. 

3.  The  real  name  of  Voltaire  was  Francois  Marie  Arouet. 
The  name  Voltaire  was  assumed  in  1718  and  is  supposed  to 
be  an  anagram  of  Arouet  le  j(eune). 

154       I.  See  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  p.  36. 

2.  Louis  IX  of  France  (1215-70),  the  leader  of  the  crusade 
of  1248. 


NOTES  327 

PAGE 

155  I.  The  Saturday  Review,  begun  in  1855,  was  pronoun- 
cedly conservative  in  politics.  It  devoted  much  space  to 
pure  criticism  and  scholarship,  and  Arnold's  essays  are 
frequently  criticized  in  its  columns. 

2.  He  died  on  the  17th  of  March,  a.d.  180.    [Arnold] 

156  I.  Juvenal's  sixth  satire  is  a  scathing  arraignment  of  the 
vices  and  follies  of  the  women  of  Rome  during  the  reign  of 
Domitian. 

2.  See  Juvenal,  Sat.  3,  76. 

3.  Because  he  lacks  an  inspired  poet  (to  sing  his  praises). 
Horace,  Odes,  iv,  9,  28. 

157  I.  Avidius  Cassius,  a  distinguished  general,  declared 
himself  Emperor  in  Syria  in  175  a.d.  Aurelius  proceeded 
against  him,  deploring  the  necessity  of  taking  up  arms 
against  a  trusted  officer.  Cassius  was  slain  by  his  own 
officers  while  M.  Aurelius  was  still  in  Illyria. 

2.  Commodus.  Emperor  of  Rome,  180-192  a.d.  He  was 
dissolute  and  tyrannical. 

3.  Attalus,  a  Roman  citizen,  was  put  to  death  with  other 
Christians  in  a.d.  177. 

4.  Polycarp,  Bishop  of  Smyrna,  and  one  of  the  Apostolic 
Fathers,  suffered  martyrdom  in  155  a.d. 

159       I.  Tacitus,  Ab  Excessu  Augusti,  xv,  44. 
161       I.  Claude  Fleury  (1640-1723),  French  ecclesiastical  his- 
torian, author  of  the  Histoire  Ecdesiastique,  20  vols.,  1691. 

163  I.  Med.,  I,  12. 

2.  Ibid.,  I,  14. 

3.  Ibid.,  IV,  24. 

164  I.  Ibid.,  Ill,  4. 

165  I.  Ibid.,  V,  6. 

2.  Ibid.,  IX,  42. 

3.  Lucius  Annseus  Seneca  (c.  3  b.c.-a.d.  65),  statesman 
and  philosopher.  His  twelve  so-called  Dialogues  are  Stoic 
sermons  of  a  practical  and  earnest  character. 

166  I.  Med.,  Ill,  2. 

167  I.  Ibid.,  v,  5. 

2.  Ibid.,  VIII,  34. 

168  I.  Ibid.,  IV,  3. 

169  I.  Ibid.,  I,  17. 

2.  Tiberius,  Caligula,  Nero,  Domitian.  Roman  Emper- 
ors, 14-37  A.D.,  37-41  A.D.,  54-68  a.d.,  and  81-96  a.d. 

3.  Med.,  IV,  28. 

4.  Ibid.,  V,  11. 

170  I.  Ibid.,  X,  8. 

171  I.   Ibid.,  IV,  32. 

2.  Ibid.,  V,  33. 

3.  Ibid.,  IX,  30. 

4.  Ibid.,  VII,  55. 

172  I.  Ibid.,  VI,  48. 
2.  Ibid.,  IX,  3. 

173  I.  Matt.  XVII,  17. 


328  NOTES 

PAGE 

2.  Med.,  X,  15. 

3.  Ibid.,  VI,  45. 

4.  Ibid.,  V,  8. 

5.  Ibid.,  VII,  55. 

174  1.  Ibid.,  IV,  1.  f 

2.  Ibid.,  X,  31. 

3.  Ibid. 

175  I.  Alogi.  An  ancient  sect  that  rejected  the  Apocalypse 
and  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

2.  Gnosis.  Knowledge  of  spiritual  truth  or  of  matters 
commonly  conceived  to  pertain  to  faith  alone,  such  as  was 
claimed  by  the  Gnostics,  a  heretical  Christian  sect  of  the 
second  century. 

3.  The  correct  reading  is  tendehantque  {Mneid,  \i,  314), 
which  Arnold  has  altered  to  apply  to  the  present  case. 

THE  CONTRIBUTION  OF  THE  CELTS  TO   ENGLISH 
LITERATURE 

176  I.  From  On  The  Study  of  Celtic  Literature,  London,  1867> 
chap.  VI.  It  was  previously  published  in  the  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine, vols.  XIII  and  xiv,  March-July,  1866.  In  the  Introduc- 
tion to  the  book  Arnold  says:  "  The  following  remarks  on 
the  study  of  Celtic  literature  formed  the  substance  of  four 
lectures  given  by  me  last  year  and  the  year  before  in  the 
chair  of  poetry  at  Oxford."  The  chapter  is  slightly  abridged 
in  the  present  selection. 

177  I.  Paradise  Lost,  in,  32-35. 

2.  Tasso,  I,  2,  304-05. 

3.  Menander.  The  most  famous  Greek  poet  of  the  New 
Comedy  (342-291  B.C.). 

179  I.  Gemeinheit.  Arnold  defines  the  word  five  lines  below. 

2.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  Note  2, 
p.  42. 

3.  Bossuet.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections, 
Note  2,  p.  49. 

4.  Henry  St.  John,  Viscount  Bolingbroke  (1678-1751), 
English  statesman  and  man  of  letters,  was  author  of  the 
Idea  of  a  Patriot  King.  Arnold  is  inclined  to|  overestimate 
the  quality  of  his  stj'le. 

180  I.  Taliessin  and  Llywarch  Hen  are  the  names  of  Welsh 
bards,  supposedly  of  the  late  sixth  century,  whose  poems  are 
contained  in. the  Red  Book  of  Hergest,  a  manuscript  formerly 
preserved  in  Jesus  College,  Oxford,  and  now  in  the  Bodleian. 
Nothing  further  is  known  of  them.  Ossian,  Ossin,  or  Oisin, 
was  a  legendary  Irish  third  century  hero  and  poet,  the  son  of 
Finn.  In  Scotland  the  Ossianic  revival  was  due  to  James 
Macpherson.   See  Note  1,  p.  181. 

2.  From  the  Black  Book  of  Caermarthen,  19. 

181  X.  James  Macpherson  (1736-96)  published  anonymously 
in  1760  his  Fragments  of  Ancient  Poetry,  collected  in  the 


NOTES  329 

PAGE 

Highlands  of  Scotland  and  translated  from  the  Gaelic  or  Erse 
language.  This  was  followed  by  an  epic  Fingal  and  other 
poems.  Their  authenticity  was  early  doubted  and  a  con- 
troversy followed.  They  are  now  generally  believed  to  be 
forgeries.  The  passage  quoted,  as  well  as  references  to 
Selma,  "woody  Morven,"  and  "echoing  Lora"  (not  Sora), 
is  from  Carthon:  a  Poem. 

182  I.  Werther.  Goethe's  Die  Leiden  des  jungen  Werthers 
(1774)  was  a  product  of  the  Sturm  und  Drang  movement 
in  German  literature,  and  responsible  for  its  sentimental 
excesses.  Goethe  mentions  Ossian  in  connection  with  Homer 
in  Werther,  book  ii,  "  am  12.  October,"  and  translates  sev- 
eral passages  of  considerable  length  toward  the  close  of  this 
book. 

2.  Prometheus.  An  unfinished  drama  of  Goethe's,  of 
which  a  fine  fragment  remains. 

183  I.  For  Llywarch  Hen,  see  Note  1,  p.  180.  The  present 
quotation  is  from  book  ii  of  the  Red  Book.  A  translation  of 
the  poem  differing  somewhat  from  the  one  quoted  by  Arnold 
is  contained  in  W.  F.  Skene's  The  Four  Ancient  Books  of 
Wales,  Edinburgh,  1868. 

2.  From  On  this  day  I  complete  my  thirty-sixth  year,  1824. 

3.  From  Euthanasia,  1812. 

184  I.  Manfred,  Lara,  Cain.  Heroes  of  Byron's  poems  so 
named. 

2.  From  Paradise  Lost,  i,  105-09. 

185  I.  Rhyme,  —  the  most  striking  characteristic  of  our  mod- 
ern poetry  as  distinguished  from  that  of  the  ancients,  and  a 
main  source,  to  our  poetry,  of  its  magic  and  charm,  of  what 
we  call  its  rotnantic  element  —  rhyme  itself,  all  the  weight 
of  evidence  tends  to  show,  comes  into  our  poetry  from  the 
Celts.  [Arnold.]  A  different  explanation  is  given  by  J.  Schip- 
per,  A  History  of  English  Versification,  Oxiord,  1910:"  End- 
rhyme  or  full-rhyme  seems  to  have  arisen  independently  and 
without  historical  connection  in  several  nations.  ...  Its 
adoption  into  all  modern  literature  is  due  to  the  extensive 
use  made  of  it  in  the  hymns  of  the  church." 

2.  Lady  Guest's  Mabinogion,  Math  the  Son  of  Mathonwy, 
ed.  1849,  III,  239. 

3.  Mabinogion,  Kilhwch  and  Olwcn,  11,  275. 

186  I.  Mabinogion,  Peredur  the  Son  of  Evrawc,  i,  324. 
2.  Mabinogion,  Geraint  the  Son  of  Erbin,  11,  112. 

187  *i.  Novalis.  The  pen-name  of  Friedrich  von  Hardenberg 
(1772-1801),  sometimes  called  the  "  Prophet  of  Romanti- 
cism."  See  Carlyle's  essay  on  Novalis. 

2.  For  Riickert,  see  Wordsworth,  Selections,  Note  4, 
p.  224. 

3.  Take  the  following  attempt  to  render  the  natural  magic 
supposed  to  pervade  Tieck's  poetry:  "  In  diesen  Dichtun- 
gen  herrscht  eine  geheimnissvoUe  Innigkeit,  ein  sonder- 
bares  Einverstandniss  mit  der  Natur,  besonders  mit  der 


330  NOTES 

PAGE 

Pflanzen-  und  Steinreich.  Der  Leser  fiihlt  sich  da  wie  in 
einem  verzauberten  Walde;  er  hort  die  unterirdischen  Quel- 
len  melodisch  rauschen ;  wildfremde  Wunderblumen  schauen 
ihn  an  mit  ihren  bunten  sehnslichtigen  Augen;  unsichtbare 
Lippen  ktissen  seine  Wangen  mit  neckender  Zartlichkeit; 
hohe  Pilze,  ivie  goldne  Glocken,  wachsen  klingend  empor  am 
Fusse  der  Baume  " ;  and  so  on.  Now  that  stroke  of  the  hohe 
Pilze,  the  great  funguses,  would  have  been  impossible  to  the 
tact  and  delicacy  of  a  born  lover  of  nature  like  the  Celt;  and 
could  only  have  come  from  a  German  who  has  hineinstiidirt 
himself  into  natural  magic.  It  is  a  crj'ing  false  note,  which 
carries  us  at  once  out  of  the  world  of  nature-magic,  and  the 
breath  of  the  woods,  into  the  world  of  theatre-magic  and  the 
smell  of  gas  and  orange-peel.    [Arnold.] 

Johann  Ludwig  Tieck  (1773-1853)  was  one  of  the  most 
prominent  of  the  German  romanticists.  He  was  especially 
felicitous  in  the  rehandling  of  the  old  German  fairy  tales. 
The  passage  quoted  above  is  from  Heine's  Germany,  Part  ii, 
book  II,  chap.  ii.  The  following  is  the  translation  of  C.  G. 
Leland,  slightly  altered:  "  In  these  compositions  we  feel  a 
mj-sterious  depth  of  meaning,  a  marvellous  union  with 
nature,  especially  with  the  realm  of  plants  and  stones.  The 
reader  seems  to  be  in  an  enchanted  forest;  he  hears  subter- 
ranean springs  and  streams  rustling  melodiously,  and  his  own 
name  whispered  by  the  trees.  Broad-leaved  clinging  plants 
wind  vexingh'  about  his  feet,  wild  and  strange  wonder- 
flowers  look  at  him  with  vari-colored  longing  eyes,  invisible 
lips  kiss  his  cheeks  with  mocking  tenderness,  great  funguses 
like  golden  bells  grow  singing  about  the  roots  of  trees." 

4.  Wmtcr's  Tale,  iv,  iii,  118-20. 

5.  Arnold  doubtless  refers  to  the  passage  in  The  Solitary 
Reaper  referred  to  in  a  similar  connection  in  the  essaj'  on 
Maurice  de  Guerin,  though  Wordsworth  has  written  two 
poems  To  the  Cuckoo. 

6.  The  passage  on  the  mountain  birch-tree,  which  is 
quoted  in  the  esi?ay  on  Maurice  de  Guerin,  is  from  S^nan- 
cour's  Ohermann,  letter  11.  For  his  delicate  appreciation  of 
the  Easter  daisy  see  Ohermann,  letter  91. 

188  I.  Pope's  Iliad,  xiu,  687. 

2.  Propertius,  Elegies,  book  i,  20,  21-22:  "  The  band  of 
heroes  covered  the  pleasant  beach  with  leaves  and  branches 
woven  together." 

3.  Idylls,  xiii,  34.  The  present  reading  of  the  line  gives 
(KiLTo,  iJieya:  "A  meadow  lay  before  them,  very  good  for 
beds." 

4.  From  the  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn. 

189  I.  That  is,  Drdicaliun. 

2.  From  the  Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

3.  Ibid. 

190  I.  Virgil,  Eclogues,  \ai,  45. 

2.  Ibid,  II,  47-48:  "  Plucking  pale  violets  and  the  tallest 


NOTES  331 

PAGE 

poppies,  she  joins  with  them  the  narcissus  and  the  flower 
of  the  fragrant  dill." 

3.  Ihid.,  II,  51-52:  "I  will  gather  quinces,  white  with 
delicate  down,  and  chestnuts." 

4.  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  11,  i,  249-52. 

5.  Merchant  of  Venice,  v,  i,  58-59. 

6.  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  11,  i,  83-85. 

191  I.  Merchant  of  Venice,  v,  i,  1  ff. 

GEORGE  SAND 

192  I.  Reprinted  from  the  Fortnightly  Review  for  June,  1877, 
in  Mixed  Essays,  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  1879.  Amandine 
Lucile  Aurora  Dudevant,  nee  Dupin  (1804-76),  was  the  most 

H  prolific  woman  writer  of  France.  The  pseudonym  George 
Sand  was  a  combination  of  George,  the  typical  Bcrriclion 
name,  and  Sand,  abbreviated  from  (Jules)  Sandeau,  in  col- 
laboration with  whom  she  began  her  literary  career. 

2.  Indiana,  George  Sand's  first  novel,  1832. 

3.  Nohant  is  a  village  of  Berry,  one  of  the  ancient  prov- 
inces of  France,  comprising  the  modern  departments  of 
Cher  and  Indre.  The  Indre  and  the  Creuse  are  its  chief 
rivers.  Vierzon,  Chateauroux,  Le  Chatre,  and  Ste. -Severe 
are  towns  of  the  province.  Le  Puy  is  in  the  neighboring 
department  of  Haute- Loire,  and  La  Marche  is  in  the  depart- 
ment of  Vosges.  For  the  Vallee  Noire  see  Sand's  The  Miller 
of  Angibaidt,  chap,  iii,  etc. 

4.  Jeanne.  The  first  of  a  series  of  novels  in  which  the 
pastoral  element  prevails.   It  was  published  in  1844. 

5.  The  Pierres  Jaunatres  (or  Jomatres)  is  a  district  in  the 
mountains  of  the  Creuse  (see  Jeanne,  Prologue).  Toulx 
Ste.-Croix  is  a  ruined  Gallic  town  (Jeanne,  chap.  i).  For  the 
druidical  stones  of  Mont  Barlot  see  Jeanne,  chap.  vii. 

193  I.  Cassini's  great  map.  A  huge  folio  volume  containing 
183  charts  of  the  various  districts  of  France,  published  by 
Mess.  Maraldi  and  Cassini  de  Thury,  Paris,  1744. 

2.  For  an  interesting  description  of  the  patache,  or  rustic 
carriage,  see  George  Sand's  Miller  of  Angibault,  chap.  11. 

3.  laades.   An  infertile  moor. 

194  I.  Maurice  and  Solange.  See,  for  example,  the  Letters  of  a 
Traveller. 

2.  Chopin.  George  Sand's  friendship  for  the  composer 
Chopin  began  in  1837. 

195  I.  Jules  Michelet  (1798-1874),  French  historian. 

2.  her  death.  George  Sand  died  at  Nohant,  June  8,  1876. 

196  I.  From  \he  Journal  d'un  Voyageur,  September  15,  1870, 
ed.  1871,  p.  2. 

2.  Consuelo  (1842-44)  is  George  Sand's  best-known 
novel. 

3.  Edm^e,  Genevieve,  Germain.  Characters  in  the  novels 
Mauprat,  Andre,  and  La  Mare  au  Diable. 


332  NOTES 

PAGE 

4.  Lettres  d'un  Voyageiir,  Mauprat,  Frangois  le  Champi. 
Published  in  1830-36,  1836,  and  1848. 

5.  F.  W.  H.  Myers  (1843-1901),  poet  and  essayist.  See 
his  Essays,  Modern,  ed.  1883,  pp.  7(>-103. 

197       I.  Valvedre.   Publislied  in  1861. 

2.  Werther.  See  The  Contribution  of  the  Celts,  Selections, 
Note  1,  p.  182. 

3.  Corinne.  An  esthetic  romance  (1807)  by  Mme.  de  Stael. 

4.  Valentine  (1832),  George  Sand's  second  novel,  pointed 
out  "  the  dangers  and  pains  of  an  ill-assorted  marriage." 
L^lia  (1833)  was  a  still  more  outspoken  diatribe  against 
society  and  the  marriage  law. 

199  I.  From  Lelia,  chap,  lxvii. 

2.  Jacques  (1834),  the  hero  of  which  is  George  Sand  in 
man's  disguise,  sets  forth  the  author's  doctrine  of  free  love. 

3.  From  Jacques,  letter  95. 

200  I.  From  Leltrcs  d'un  Voyageur,  letter  9. 
2.  Ibid.,  a  Rollinat,  September,  1834. 

203       I.  Hans  Holbein,   the   younger    (1497-1543),   German 
artist. 

205  I.  From  La  Mare  au  Diable,  chap.  i. 
2.  Ibid.,  The  Author  to  the  Reader. 

206  I.  Ibid.,  chap.  i. 

207  I.  Ibid.,  chap.  i. 

208  I.  From  Impressions  et  Souvenirs,  ed.  1873,  p.  135. 

2.  Ibid.,  p.  137. 

3.  From  Wordsworth's  Lines  Composed  a  few  Miles  above 
Tintern  Abbey. 

4.  From  Itnprcssions  et  Souvenirs,  p.  136. 

209  I.  Ibid.,  p.  139. 

210  I.  Ibid.,  p.  269. 
2.   Ibid.,  p.  2.53. 

211  I.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  p.  29. 

2.  Emile  Zola  (1840-1902),  French  novelist,  was  the 
apostle  of  the"  realistic  "  or  "naturalistic"  school.  L' As- 
sommoir  (1877)  depicts  especially  the  vice  of  drunkenness. 

212  I.  From  Journal  d'un   Voyageur,  February  10,  1871,  p. 
305.    , 

2.  Emile  Louis  Victor  de  Laveleye  (1822-92),  Belgian 
economist.  He  was  especially  interested  in  bimetallism, 
primitive  property,  and  nationalism. 

213  I.  From   Journal   d'un   Voyageur,  December  21,   1870, 
p.  202. 

214  I.  Ibid.,  December  21.  1870,  p.  220. 

215  I.   Ibid.,  February  7,  1871,  p.  228. 

2.  Round  my  House:  Notes  of  Rural  Life  in  France  in 
Peace  and  War  (1876),  by  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton.  See 
especially  chapters  xi  and  xii. 

3.  Barbarians,  Philistines,  Populace.  Arnold's  designa- 
tions for  the  aristocratic,  middle,  and  lower  classes  of  Eng- 
land in  Culture  and  Anarchy. 


NOTES  333 

PAGE 

216  I.  Paul  Amand  Challemel-Lacour  (1827-96),  French 
statesman  and  man  of  letters. 

2.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  Note  4,  p.  44. 

3.  From  Journal  (Tun  Voyageur,  February  10,  1871,  p. 
309. 

217  I.  The  closing  sentence  of  the  Nicene  Creed  with  expecto 
changed  to  exspectat.  For  the  English  translation  see  Morn- 
ing Prayer  in  the  Episcopal  Prayer  Book;  for  the  Greek  and 
Latin  see  Schaff,  Creeds  of  Christendom,  11,  58,  59. 

WORDSWORTH 

218  I.  Published  in  Macmillan's  Magazine,  July,  1879,  vol. 
XL ;  as  Preface  to  The  Poems  of  Wordsworth,  chosen  and 
edited  by  Arnold  in  1879;  and  in  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second 
Series,  1888. 

219  I.  Rydal  Mount.  Wordsworth's  home  in  the  Lake  Dis- 
trict from  1813  until  his  death  in  1850. 

2.  1842.  The  year  of  publication  of  the  two-volume  edi- 
tion of  Tennyson's  poems,;containing  Locksley  Hall,  Ulysses, 
etc. 

221  I.  candid  friend.   Arnold  himself. 

222  I.  The  Biographic  Universelle,  ou  Dictionnaire  historique 
of  F.  X.  de  Feller  (1735-1802)  was  originally  published  in 
.1781. 

2.  Henry  Cochin.  A  brilliant  lawyer  and  writer  of  Paris, 
1687-1747. 

223  I.  Amphictyonic  Court.  An  association  of  Ancient  Greek 
communities  centering  in  a  shrine. 

224  I.  Gottlieb  Friedrich  Klopstock  (1724-1803)  was  author 
of  Der  Messias. 

2.  Lessing.  See  Sweetness  and  Light,  Selections,  Note  2, 
p.  271. 

3.  Johann  Ludwig  Uhland  (1787-1862),  romantic  lyric 
poet. 

4.  Friedrich  Riickert  (1788-1866)  was  the  author  of 
Liebesfriihling  and  other  poems. 

5.  Heine.   See  Heinrich  Heine,  Selections,  pp.  112-144. 

6.  The  greatest  poems  of  Vicenzo  da  Filicaja  (1642-1707) 
are  six  odes  inspired  by  the  victory  of  Sobieski. 

7.  Vittorio,  Count  Alfieri  (1749-1803),  ItaUan  dramatist. 
His  best-known  drama  is  his  Saul. 

8.  Manzoni  (1785-1873)  was  a  poet  and  novelist,  author 
of  I  Promessi  Sposi. 

9.  Giacomo,  Cotint  Leopardi  (1798-1837),  Italian  poet. 
His  writings  are  characterized  by  deep-seated  melancholy. 

ID.  Jean  Racine  (1639-99),  tragic  dramatist. 

11.  Nicolas  Boileau-Despreaux  (1636-1711),  poet  and 
critic. 

12.  Andre  de  Chenier  (1762-94),  poet,  author  of  Jeune 
Captive,  etc. 


334  NOTES 

PAGE 

13.  Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger  (1780-1857),  song-writer. 

14.  Alphonse  Marie  Louis  de  Prat  de  Lamartine  (1790- 
1869),  poet,  historian,  and  statesman. 

15.  Louis  Charles  Alfred  de  Musset  (1810-57),  poet, 
play-writer,  and  novelist. 

228  I.  From  The  Recluse,  1.  754. 

229  I.   Paradise  Lost,  11,  553-54. 

230  I.  The  Tempest,  iv,  i,  156-58. 

2.  criticism  of  life.  See  The  Study  of  Poetry,  Selections, 
Note  1,  p.  57. 

231  I.  Discourses  of  Epictetus,  trans.  Long,  1903,  vol.  i,  book 
II,  chap.  XXIII,  p.  248. 

232  I.  Theophile  Gautier.  A  noted  French  poet,  critic,  and 
novelist,  and  a  leader  of  the  French  Romantic  Movement 
(1811-72). 

2.  The  Recluse,  11.  767-71. 

3.  Mneid,  vi,  662. 

233  I.  Leslie  Stephen.  English  biographer  and  literary  critic 
(1832-1904).  He  was  the  first  editor  of  the  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography.  Arnold  quotes  from  the  essay  on  Words- 
worth's Ethics  in  Hours  in  a  Ldbrary  (1874-79),  vol.  iii. 

2.  Excursion,  iv,  73-76. 

234  I.  Ibid.,  II,  10-17. 

2.  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early 
Childhood. 

235  I.  Excursion,  ix,  293-302. 

236  I.  See  p.  232. 

237  I.  the  "not  ourselves."  Arnold  quotes  his  own  definition 
of  God  as  "the  enduring  power,  not.ourselves,  which  makes 
for  righteousness."  See  Literature  and  Dogma,  chap.  i. 

2.  The  opening  sentence  of  a  famous  criticism  of  the 
Excursion  published  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  November, 
1814,  no.  47.  It  was  written  by  Francis  Jeffrey,  Lord  Jeffrey 
(1773-1850),  Scottish  judge  and  literary  critic,  and  first 
editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

238  I.  Macbeth,  iii,  ii. 

2.  Paradise  Lost,  vii,  23-24. 

3.  The  Recluse,  1.  831. 

239  I.  From  Burns's  A  Bard's  Epitaph. 

240  I.  The  correct  title  is  The  Solitary  Reaper. 

SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

242  I.  This  selection  is  the  first  chapter  of  Culture  and  Anar- 
chy. It  originally  formed  a  part  of  the  last  lecture  delivered 
by  Arnold  as  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford.  Culture  and 
Anarchy  was  first  printed  in  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  July 
1867,-  August,  1868,  vols,  xvi-xviii.  It  was  published  as 
a  book  in  1869. 

2..  For  Sainte-Beuve,  see  The  Study  of  Poetry,  Selections, 
Note  2,  p.  56.   The  article  referred  to  appeared  in  the 


NOTES  335 

PAGE 

Quarterly  Review  for  January,  1866,  vol.  cxix,  p.  80.  It 
finds  fault  with  Sainte-Beuve's  lack  of  conclusiveness,  and 
describes  him  as  having  "spent  his  life  in  fitting  his  mind 
to  be  an  elaborate  receptacle  for  well-arranged  doubts." 
In  this  respect  a  comparison  is  made  with  Arnold's  ' '  grace- 
ful but  perfectly  unsatisfactory  essays." 

243  I.  From  Montesquieu's  Discours  sur  les  motifs  qui  doivent 
nous  encourager  aux  sciences,  prononce  le  15  Novembre,  1725. 
Montesquieu's  (Euvres  completes,  ed.  Laboulaye,  vii,  78. 

244  I.  Thomas  Wilson  (1663-1755)  was  consecrated  Bishop 
of  Sodor  and  Man  in  1698.  His  episcopate  was  marked  by  a 
number  of  reforms  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  The  opening  pages  of 
Arnold's  Preface  to  Culture  and  Anarchy  are  devoted  to  an 
appreciation  of  Wilson.  He  says:  "  On  a  lower  range  than 
the  Imitation,  and  awakening  in  our  nature  chords  less  poet- 
ical and  delicate,  the  Maxims  of  Bishop  Wilson  are,  as  a 
religious  work,  far  more  solid.  To  the  most  sincere  ardor 
and  unction.  Bishop  Wilson  unites,  in  these  Maxims,  that 
downright  honesty  and  plain  good  sense  which  our  English 
race  has  so  powerfully  applied  to  the  divine  impossibilities 
of  religion;  by  which  it  has  brought  religion  so  much  into 
practical  life,  and  has  done  its  allotted  part  in  promoting 
upon  earth  the  kingdom  of  God." 

2.  will  of  God  prevail.  Maxim  450  reads:  "  A  prudent 
Christian  will  resolve  at  all  times  to  sacrifice  his  inclinations 
to  reason,  and  his  reason  to  the  will  and  word  of  God." 

247  I.  From  Bishop  Wilson's  Sacra  Privata,  Noon  Prayers, 
Works,  ed.  1781,  i,  199. 

248  I.  John  Bright  (1811-89)  was  a  leader  with  Cobden  in 
the  agitation  for  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws  and  other  measures 
of  reform,  and  was  one  of  England's  greatest  masters  of 
oratory. 

2.  Frederic  Harrison  (1831-  ),  English  jurist  and  his- 
torian, was  president  of  the  English  Positivist  Committee, 
1880-1905.  His  Creed  of  a  Layman  (1907)  is  a  statement  of 
his  religious  position. 

249  I.  See  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  Note  2,  p.  37. 
253       I.  1  Tim.,  iv,  8. 

2.  The  first  of  the  "Rules  of  Health  and  Long  Life  "  in 
Poor  Richard's  Almanac  for  December,  1742.  The  quota- 
tion should  read:  "as  the  Constitution  of  thy  Body  allows 
of." 

3.  Epictetus,  Encheiridion,  chap.  xli. 

4.  Sweetness  and  Light.  The  phrase  is  from  Swift's  The' 
Battle  of  the  Books,  Works,  ed.  Scott,  1824,  x,  240.  In 
the  apologue  of  the  Spider  and  the  Bee  the  superiority  of 
the  ancient  over  the  modern  writers  is  thus  summarized: 
"  Instead  of  dirt  and  poison  we  have  rather  chose  to  fill 
our  hives  with  honey  and  wax,  thus  furnishing  mankind 
with  the  two  noblest  of  things,  which  are  sweetness  and 
light." 


336  NOTES 

PAGE 

256  I.  Independents.  The  name  applied  in  England  during 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  to  the  denomina- 
tion now  known  as  Congregationalists. 

2.  From  Burke's  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America, 
Works,  ed.  1834,  i,  187. 

3.  1  Pet.,  Ill,  8. 

258  I.  Epsom.  A  market  town  in  Surrey,  where  are  held 
the  famous  Derby  races,  founded  in  1780. 

259  I.  Sallust's  Catiline,  chap.  Lii,  §  22. 

2.  The  Daily  Telegraph  was  begun  in  June,  1855,  as  a 
twopenny  newspaper.  It  became  the  great  organ  of  the 
middle  classes  and  has  been  distinguished  for  its  enterprise 
in  many  fields.  Up  to  1878  it  was  consistently  Liberal  in 
politics.  It  is  a  frequent  object  of  Arnold's  irony  as  the 
mouthpiece  of  English  philistinism. 

261  I.  Young  Leo  (or  Leo  Adolescens)  is  Arnold's  name  for 
the  typical  writer  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  (see  above) .  He  is 
a  prominent  character  of  Friendship's  Garland. 

262  I.  Edmond  Beales  (1803-81),  political  agitator,  was  es- 
pecially identified  with  the  movement  for  manhood  suf- 
frage and  the  ballot,  and  was  the  leading  spirit  in  two  large 
popular  demonstrations  in  London  in  1866. 

2.  Charles  Bradlaugh  (1833-91),  freethought  advocate 
and  politician.  His  efforts  were  especially  directed  toward 
maintaining  the  freedom  of  the  press  in  issuing  criticisms 
on  religious  belief  and  sociological  questions.  In  1880  he 
became  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  began  a  long  and 
finally  succe.ssful  struggle  for  the  right  to  take  his  seat  in 
Parliament  without  the  customary  oath  on  the  Bible. 

3.  John  Henry  Newman  (1801-90)  was  the  leader  of  the 
Oxford  Movement  in  the  English  Church.  His  Apologia 
pro  Vita  Sua  (1864)  was  a  defense  of  his  religious  life  and  an 
account  of  the  causes  which  led  him  from  Anglicanism  to 
Romanism.  For  his  hostility  to  Liberalism  see  the  Apolo- 
gia, ed.  1907,  pp.  34,  212,  and  288. 

4.  ^neid,  i,  460. 

263  I  The  Reform  Bill  of  1832  abolished  fifty-six  "rotten  " 
boroughs  and  made  other  changes  in  representation  to 
Parliament,  thus  transferring  a  large  share  of  political  power 
from  the  landed  aristocracy  to  the  middle  classes. 

2.  Robert  Lowe  (1811-92),  afterwards  Viscount  Sher- 
brooke,  held  offices  in  the  Board  of  Education  and  Board  of 
Trade.  He  was  liberal,  but  opposed  the  Reform  Bill  of  that 
party  in  1866-67.  His  speeches  on  the  subject  were  printed 
in  1867. 
266  I.  Jacobinism.  The  Societe  des  Jacobins  was  the  most 
famous  of  the  political  clubs  of  the.  French  Revolution. 
Later  the  term  Jacobin  was  applied  to  any  promulgator  of 
extreme  revolutionary  or  radical  opinions. 

2.  See  ante,  Note  2,  p.  248. 

3.  Auguste  Comte  (1798-1857),  French  philosopher  and 


NOTES  337 

PAGE 

founder  of  Positivism.  This  system  of  thought  attempts  to 
base  religion  on  the  verifiable  facts  of  existence,  opposes 
devotion  to  the  study  of  metaphysics,  and  substitutes  the 
worship  of  Humanity  for  supernatural  religion. 

4.  Richard  Congreve  (1818-99)  resigned  a  fellowship  at 
Oxford  in  1855,  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the 
propagation  of  the  Positive  philosophy. 
2G7  I.  Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832),  philosopher  and  jurist, 
was  leader  of  the  English  school  of  Utilitarianism,  which 
recognizes  "  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number  " 
as  the  proper  foundation  of  morality  and  legislation. 

2.  Ludwig  Preller  (1809-61),  German  philologist  and 
antiquarian. 

268  1.  Book  of  Job.  Arnold  must  have  read  Franklin's  piece 
hastily,  since  he  has  mistaken  a  bit  of  ironic  trifling  for  a 
serious  attempt  to  rewrite  the  Scriptures.  The  Proposed 
New  Version  of  the  Bible  is  merely  a  bit  of  amusing  burlesque 
in  which  six  verses  of  the  Book  of  Job  are  rewritten  in  the 
style  of  modern  politics.  According  to  Mr.  William  Temple 
Franklin  the  Bagatelles,  of  which  the  Proposed  New  Version 
is  a  part,  were  "chiefly  written  by  Dr.  Franklin  for  the 
amusement  of  his  intimate  society  in  London  and  Paris." 
See  Franklin's  Complete  Works,  ed.  1844,  11,  164. 

2.  The  Deontology,  or  The  Science  of  Morality,  was 
arranged  and  edited  by  John  Bowring,  in  1834,  two  years 
after  Bentham's  death,  and  it  is  doubtful  how  far  it  repre- 
sents Bentham's  thoughts. 

3.  Henry  Thomas  Buckle  (1821-62)  was  the  author  'of 
the  History  of  Civilization  in  England,  a  book  which,  though 
full  of  inaccuracies,  has  had  a  great  influence  on  the  theory 
and  method  of  historical  writing. 

4.  Mr.  Mill.  See  Marcus  Aurelius,  Selections,  Note  2, 
p.  145. 

269  I.  The  article  from  which  Arnold  quotes  these  extracts  is 
not  Frederic  Harrison's  Culture:  A  Dialogue,  but  an*  earlier 
essay  in  the  Fortnightly  Review  for  March  1,  1867,  called  Our 
Venetian  Constitution.   See  pages  276-77  of  the  article. 

271  I.  PeterAbelard  (1079-1142)  was  a  scholastic  philosopher 
and  a  leader  in  the  more  liberal  thought  of  his  day. 

2.  Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing  (1729-81),  German  critic 
and  dramatist.  His  best-known  writings  are  the  epoch- 
making  critical  work,  Laokoon  (1766),  and  the  drama 
Minna  von  Barnhelm  (1767).  His  ideas  were  in  the  highest 
degree  stirnulating  and  fruitful  to  the  German  writers  who 
followed  him. 

3.  Johann  Gottfried  von  Herder  (1744-1803),  a  volumi- 
nous and  influential  German  writer,  was  a  pioneer  of  the 
Romantic  Movement.  He  championed  adherence  to  the 
national  type  in  literature,  and  helped  to  found  the  histori- 
cal method  in  literature  and  science. 

271       I.  Confessions  of  St.  Augustine,  xiii,  18,  22,  Everyman's 
^  Library  ed.,  p.  326.  ' 


338  NOTES 

HEBRAISM   AND   HELLENISM 

PAGE 

273  I.  The  present  selection  comprises  chapter  iv,  of  Culture 
and  Anarchy.  In  the  preceding  chapter  Arnold  has  been 
pointing  out  the  imperfection  of  the  various  classes  of  Eng- 
lish society,  which  he  describes  as  "Barbarians,  Philistines, 
and  Populace."  For  the  correction  of  this  imperfection  he 
pleads  for  "  some  public  recognition  and  establishment  of 
our  best  selfj  or  right  reason."  In  chapter  iii,  he  has  shown 
how  "our  habits  and  practice  oppose  themselves  to  such  a 
recognition."  He  now  proposes  to  find,  "beneath  our  actual 
habits  and  practice,  the  very  ground  and  cause  out  of  which 
they  spring."   Then  follows  the  selection  here  given. 

Professor  Gates  has  pointed  out  the  fact  that  Arnold 
probably  borrows  the  terms  here  contrasted  from  Heine. 
In  Obcr  Ludwig  Borne  {Werke,  ed.  Stuttgart,  x,  12),  Heine 
says:  "All  men  are  either  Jews  or  Hellenes,  men  ascetic  in 
their  instincts,  hostile  to  culture,  spiritual  fanatics,  or  men 
of  vigorous  good  cheer,  full  of  the  pride  of  life.  Naturalists." 
For  Heine's  own  relation  to  Hebraism  and  Hellenism,  see 
the  present  selection,  p.  275. 

2.  See  Sweetness  and  Light,  Selections,  Note  1,  p.  244. 
Maxim  452  reads:  "Two  things  a  Christian  will  never  do 
—  never  go  against  the  best  light  he  has,  this  will  prove  his 
sincerity,  and,  2,  to  take  care  that  his  light  be  not  darkness, 
i.e.,  that  he  mistake  not  his  rule  by  which  he  ought  to 
go." 

274  I.  2  Pet.  I,  4. 

2.  Frederick  William  Robertson  (1816-53)  began  his 
famous  ministry  at  Brighton  in  1847.  He  was  a  man  of 
deep  spirituality  and  great  sincerity.  The  latter  part  of  his 
life  was  clouded  by  opposition  roused  by  his  sympathy  with 
the  revolutionary  ideas  of  the  1848  epoch  and  by  the  mental 
trouble  which  eventually  resulted  in  his  death.  The  sermon 
referred  to  seems  to  be  the  first  Advent  Lecture  on  The 
Greek.  Arnold  objects  to  Robertson's  rather  facile  sum- 
marizing. Four  characteristics  are  mentioned  as  marking 
Grecian  life  and  religion :  restlessness,  worldliness,  worship  of 
the  beautiful,  and  worship  of  the  human.  The  second  of 
these  has  three  results,  disappointment,  degradation,  disbe- 
lief in  immortality. 

275  I.  Heinrich  Heine.  See  Heine,  Selections,  pp.  112-144. 

2.  Prov.  XXIX,  18. 

3.  Ps.  cxii,  1. 
277       I.  Rom.  Ill,  31. 

2.  Zech.  IX,  13. 

3.  Prov.  XVI,  22. 

4.  John  I,  4-9;  8-12;  Luke  11,  32,  etc. 

5.  John  VIII,  32. 

6.  NichomachcEan  Ethics,  bk.  11,  chap.  ill. 

7.  Jas.  I,  25. 


NOTES  339 

PAGE 

8.  Discourses  of  Epidetus,  bk.  ii,  chap,  xix,  trans.  Long, 
I,  214#. 

278  I.  Learning  to  die.  Arnold  seems  to  be  thinking  of  P/icedo, 
64,  Dialogues,  ii,  202:  "For  I  deem  that  the  true  votary  of 
philosophy  is  likely  to  be  misunderstood  by  other  men ;  they 
do  not  perceive  that  he  is  always  pursuing  death  and  dying; 
and  if  this  be  so,  and  he  has  had  the  desire  of  death  all  his 
life  long,  why  when  his  time  comes  should  he  repine  at  that 
which  he  has  been  always  pursuing  and  desiring  ?  "  Plato 
goes  on  to  show  that  life  is  best  when  it  is  most  freed  from 
the  concerns  of  the  body.  Cf.  also  Phoedrus  {Dialogues,  ii, 
127)  and  Gorgias  (Dialogues,  ii,  369). 

2.  2  Cor.  V,  14. 

3.  See  Aristotle,  Nichomachoean  Ethics,  bk.  x,  chaps,  viii, 
rx. 

4.  Phoedo,  82D,  Dialogues,  1,  226. 

279  I.  Xenophon's  Memorabilia,  bk.  iv,  chap,  viii,  §  6. 

280  I.  Edward  Bouverie  Pusey  (1800-82),  English  divine  and 
leader  of  the  High  Church  party  in  the  Oxford  Movement. 

281  I.  Zech.  VIII,  23. 

2.  my  Saviour  banished  joy.  The  sentence  is  an  incorrect 
quotation  from  George  Herbert's  The  Size,  the  fifth  stanza 
of  which  begins:  — 

"  Thy  Savior  sentenced  joy, 
And  in  the  flesh  condemn'd  it  as  unfit,  — 
At  least  in  lump." 

3.  Eph.  V,  6. 

282  I.  The  first  two  books.   [Arnold.] 

2.  See  Rom.  in,  2. 

3.  See  Cor.  iii,  19.  ''^ 

283  I.  Phaedo.  In  this  dialogue  Plato  attempts  to  substanti- 
ate the  doctrine  of  immortality  by  narrating  the  last  hours 
of  Socrates  and  his  conversation  on  this  subject  when  his 
own  death  was  at  hand. 

284  I.  Renascence.  I  have  ventured  to  give  to  the  foreign 
word  Renaissance  —  destined  to  become  of  more  common 
use  amongst  us  as  the  movement  which  it  denotes  comes,  as 
it  will  come,  increasingly  to  interest  us,  — ^an  EngUsh  form. 
[Arnold.] 

EQUALITY 

289  I.  This  essay,  originally  an  address  delivered  at  the 
Royal  Institution,  was  published  in  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
for  March,  1878,  and  reprinted  in  Mixed  Essays,  1879.  In 
the  present  selection  the  opening  pages  have  been  omitted. 
Arnold  begins  with  a  statement  of  England's  tendency  to 
maintain  a  condition  of  inequality  between  classes.  This  is 
reiniorced  by  the  English  freedom  of  bequest,  a  freedom 
greater  than  in  most  of  the  Continental  countries.  The  ques- 
tion of  the  advisability  of  altering  the  English  law  of  bequest 


340  NOTES 

PAGE 

is  a  matter  not  of  abstract  right,  but  of  expediency.  That  the 
maintenance  of  inequaHty  is  expedient  for  English  civiHza- 
tion  and  welfare  is  generally  assumed.  Whether  or  not  this 
assumption  is  well  founded,  Arnold  proposes  to  examine  in 
the  concluding  pages.  As  a  preliminary  step  he  defines 
civilization  as  the  humanization  of  man  in  society.  Then 
follows  the  selected  passage. 

2.  Isocrates.  An  Attic  orator  (436-338  b.c).  He  was  an 
ardent  advocate  of  Greek  unity.  The  passage  quoted  occurs 
in  the  Panegyricus,  §  .50,  Orations,  ed.  1894,  p.  67. 

290  I.  Giacomo  Antonelli  (1806-76),  Italian  cardinal.  From 
1850  until  his  death  his  activity  was  chiefly  devoted  to  the 
struggle  between  the  Papacy  and  the  Italian  Risorgimento. 

291  I.  famous  passage.  The  Introduction  to  his  Age  of  Louis 
XIV. 

293  I.  Laveleye.   See  George  Sand,  Selections,  Note  2,  p.  212. 

2.  Sir  Thomas  Erskine  May,  Lord  Farnborough  (1815- 
86),  constitutional  jurist.  Arnold  in  the  omitted  portion  of 
the  present  essay  has  quoted  several  sentences  from  his 
History  of  Democracy:'^ France  has  aimed  at  social  equality. 
The  fearful  troubles  through  which  she  has  passed  have 
checked  her  prosperity,  demoralised  her  society,  and  arrested 
the  intellectual  growth  of  her  people.  Yet  is  she  high,  if  not 
the  first,  in  the  scale  of  civilised  nations." 

3.  Hamerton.  See  George  Sand,  Selections,  Note  2,  p.  215. 
The  quotation  is  from  Round  My  House,  chap,  xi,  ed.  1876, 
pp.  229-30. 

294  I.  Charles  Sumner  (1811-74),  American  statesman,  was 
the  most  brilliant  and  uncompromising  of  the  anti-slavery 
leaders. 

295  I.  Alsace.  The  people  of  Alsace,  though  German  in 
origin,  showed  a  very  strong  feeling  against  Prussian  rule 
in  the  Franco-Prussian  War  of  1870-71.  In  September, 
1872,  45,000  elected  to  be  still  French  and  transferred  their 
domicile  to  France. 

296  I.  Michelet.  See  George  Sand,  Selections,  Note  1,  p.  195. 

298  I.  The  chorus  of  a  popular  music-hall  song  of  the  time. 
From  it  was  derived  the  word  jingoism.  For  the  original 
application  of  this  term  see  Webster's  Dictionary. 

2.  Dwight  L.  Moody  (1837-99)  and  Ira  D.  Sankey  (1840- 
1908),  the  famous  American  evangelists,  held  notable  re- 
vival meetings  in  England  in  1873-75. 

299  I.  See,  e.g.,  Heine,  Selections,  p.  129. 
2.  Goldwin  Smith,   See  Note  2,  p.  301. 

301  I.  See  Milton's  Colasterion,  Works,  ed.  1843,  in,  445  and 
452. 

2.  Goldwin  Smith  (1824-1910),  British  publicist  and  his- 
torian, has  taken  an  active  part  in  educational  questions 
both  in  England  and  America.  The  passage  quoted  below 
is  from  an  article  entitled  Falkland  and  the  Puritans,  pub- 
lished in  the  Contemporary  Review  as  a  reply  to  Arnold's 


NOTES  341 

PAGE 

essay  on  Falkland.  See  Lectures  and  Essays,  New  York, 
1881. 

3.  John  Hutchinson  (1616-64),  Puritan  soldier.  The 
Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Colonel  Hutchinson,  written  by  his 
wife  Lucy,  but  not  published  until  1806,  are  remarkable 
both  for  the  picture  which  they  give  of  the  man  and  the 
time,  and  also  for  their  simple  beauty  of  style.  For  the 
passage  quoted  see  Everyman's  Library  ed.,  pp.  182-83. 

4.  paedobaptism.   Infant  baptism. 

303  I.  Man  disquiets  himself,  but  God  manages  the  matter. 
For  Bossuet  see  The  Function  of  Criticism,  Selections,  Note 
2,  p.  49. 

2.  Prov.  XIX,  21. 

3.  So  in  the  original.    [Arnold.] 

304  I.  Bright.  See  Sweetness  and  Light,  Selections,  Note  1, 
p.  248. 

2.  Richard  Cobden  (1804-65),  English  manufacturer  and 
Radical  politician.  He  was  a  leader  in  the  agitation  for 
repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws  and  in  advocacy  of  free  trade. 

305  I.  Prov.  XIV,  6. 

2.  Compare  Cidture  and  Anarchy,  chaps.  11  and  iii,  and 
Ecce  Convertivnir  ad  Gentes,  Irish  Essays,  ed.  1903,  p.  115. 

307       I.  Samuel  Pepys  (1633-1703),  English  diarist. 

310  I.  young  lion.  See  Sioeetness  and  Light,  Selections,  Note  1, 
p.  261. 

312  I.  Mill.  See  Marcus  Aurelius,  Selections,  Note  2,  p.  145. 
2.  Spencer  Compton  Cavendish  (1833-1908),  Marquis  of 

Hartington  (since  1891  Duke  of  Devonshire),  became  Lib- 
eral leader  in  the  House  of  Commons  after  the  defeat  and 
withdrawal  of  Gladstone  in  January,  1875. 

313  I.  Menander.  See  Contribution  of  the  Celts,  Selections, 
Note  3,  p.  177. 


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